


Shot in the Dark

by writingforhugs



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Paint, F/M, model!katniss, photographer!peeta, reunited!everlark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 69,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingforhugs/pseuds/writingforhugs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss Everdeen gets more than she bargained for after answering an advert asking for models. Originally a PiP entry. Everlark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: *insert 'it's been 84 years gif* Yes, after about that long, Shot in the Dark has finally been continued. Thank you loueze for being an amazing word wizard and for putting up with me! Everyone should go and thank her for getting this done in the first place. 
> 
> Without further ado, the first chapter of SitD. Enjoy!

The notice stuck on the door of my apartment is the last thing I want to see after a virtually tip-less day at the crummy diner I work at. (Actually, that's a lie, because an old man gave me a five dollar bill because the faces I was giving other customers 'was the highlight of his day'). So now I have fifty-five dollars including the solitary tip. 

I pull the notice off the door and sigh. Printed in big black letters are the words:

RENT OVERDUE

Beneath that is a note written by Cray, the landlord of this shitty building. It reads: _darlin', its $650 monthly and if you miss this month's payment, it'll be brought up to $900. That or you're out of here._

The smiley face underneath isn't endearing, it's creepy.

I unlock the door to my one bedroom apartment and then lock it again once I'm inside. I screw the overdue notice into a ball and throw it into the trashcan with more force than necessary. This is exactly what I don't need right now. I'm still trying to pay for my mother's funeral and earning five dollars an hour and occasionally babysitting for some of the people in this building doesn't quite cover the costs of this apartment, necessities, and the funeral. I usually manage to keep my electricity and gas and water on, but now and again I'll have to go without. I have a feeling that this month I'll be sacrificing one utility yet again.

I change out of my waitress outfit and into my sweats and a too-big t-shirt. My favourite hoodies are drying by the boiler in the kitchen, so I rummage through my pitiful wardrobe in search of some other sweater to wear to fend off the chill in my apartment.

Even though I've lived here for almost two years now, I still haven't really unpacked. The breakdown of my last relationship took its toll on me, and in the end, I realised that I had to get away and live on my own terms for a while in order to get my mind sorted and my life back on track. I hadn't realised how much I'd become used to having someone to share the expenses of living with me until I was faced with bills that I couldn't afford.

We bought an apartment to share when we both started college as it was easier to live in the city instead of having to commute in and out every day. I waitressed at a fairly high-class restaurant and he worked hours at a sports shop, and together, we didn't struggle to pay rent. Living on my own was a shock at first. Getting used to meal portions for one and sleeping in bed on my own and accepting the silence that filled each room took a while, but now I'm okay. I can't say that I don't miss what I used to have, though it's too late now to ever think that we can come together again.

I haven't seen him in almost two years. It's probably time to move on.

When my hands make contact with a plastic bag stuffed in the corner of the closet, I pull it out, curious. What is stuck inside make me feel weak. It's his hoodie. His favourite hoodie, with his surname over the back. I pull it out and hold in to my nose. My eyes flutter closed. It still smells like him, after all this time.

"Peeta Mellark," I whisper. "How can you still do this to me?" I pull the garment on and the wave of memories that flood over me are almost too much to handle. I sit on the floor and pull the hood over my head. I loved wearing his clothes. They always smelt amazing and were always gigantic on me, and this hoodie is no different.

Peeta and I met when we were sixteen. At first we were just friends, but by the time we had finished high school and had travelled to a few countries with a bunch of our other friends during the following year, it was only natural that we would begin to date. I had dated three guys before him, and each of them were polar opposites of Peeta. While they were obnoxious assholes, he was loving, honest and always gave people the time of day, regardless of who they were.

After losing my father and sister within four years of each other (Mom followed the year I moved away with Peeta) he never left. He never stopped being the boy I fell in love with.

Looking back I can see how stupid our argument was on the day we broke up. I still feel so much regret for what I said. He had been spending hours upon hours locked away in the tiny room we'd turned into his 'studio' working on stuff for his college scholarship, and when he left me to eat yet another dinner alone to work on paintings and sketches, I finally told him how I felt.

_"I feel like I can't even talk to you anymore!" I yelled, pacing around the kitchen and slamming down utensils. "All you do is fucking paint in that room and you don't come out at all. You're gone when I wake up and I usually fall asleep waiting for you to come the fuck out!"_

_"You know how important these submission pieces are, Kat, you know that everything counts on me getting that scholarship!" he had yelled back me, paint smeared over his forehead and forearms. "I'm sorry if you feel like I've abandoned you, but you could've told me how you felt instead of bottling it up like you always do, because this was bound to happen."_

_"What was bound to happen?!"_

_"This!" he said, gesturing between the two of us, his eyes ablaze. "This very argument was bound to happen because you never let anyone in! Not even me. I know you find it hard to show people how you're feeling, but by now you should know that I love you, okay? And that means that I'll always be by your side, no matter what."_

_"You said you could read me like an open book! You should know how I was feeling!"_

_"But I didn't!"_

_I balled my hands into fists. "Only because you never talk to me anymore!"_

_"This scholarship is-"_

_"I don't give a damn about your scholarship, Peeta! I give a damn about the fact that you're more focused on throwing paint on a canvas that you are sitting down and eating dinner with me for ten minutes in the evenings!"_

_"Is that really how you feel?" Peeta had asked, his brow furrowing. I folded my arms over my chest. The distance between us had been getting larger and larger over the past few months, and now it'd cracked wider open._

_"Yes."_

_"My art isn't just splashing paint on a canvas!"_

_"That's all anybody's art is!" I screamed, pulling at my hair._

_"What is your problem? Do you hate me?"_

_"Right now, of course I do!"_

_"Why? What have I done?"_

_"You've ignored me! For weeks!"_

_"You know, I don't think I've ever heard you say that you didn't like being ignored. You're so good at ignoring others that I would have assumed you'd be immune to it by now," Peeta had said, his eyes narrowed. That was the first time he had ever said anything like that to me, and even though it was hurt that first swelled through my chest, the fury that quickly followed was stronger._

_"Fuck you, Peeta."_

_"You know I'm right though."_

_His cocky attitude pissed me off even more._

_"Tell you what? Why don't you go paint something based of this argument?"_

_"Maybe I will. It would be way more interesting to paint you being a bitch."_

_My brain short-circuited. "You're like your mother, you know that?"_

_Peeta had tensed, locking his jaw. "I'm not."_

_"You are. In fact, she would probably be a better person to paint about considering how alike you are. It's a wonder you haven't hit me yet."_

_That was the final straw and I knew it the second I finished speaking. The fight seemed to flow from my body like water released from a dam. My hand flew up to my mouth. Peeta hadn't had the most idyllic childhood, and my bringing it up in such a way was completely out of line._

_"I would never…" he had whispered, staring at me in horror. He stared for a good minute as I gripped the counter top, before his face had gone strangely blank and he walked away, slamming the door of the studio behind him. The sound made me flinch._

There was no forgiving what I had said.

It was my fault, really, for not understanding how much his scholarship meant to him. He had remained locked away in his studio for the rest of the night, silent from behind the closed door. Early the next morning I threw some clothes into a duffle bag and left without saying goodbye. The empty apartment he'd find when he came out of the studio would've been enough. I never heard from Peeta again, having deleted his number and blocked him from every communication device I owned on the train ride away from the city. Delly, an old friend of mine and Peeta's cousin, has emailed me once or twice, updating me on his life, but otherwise there's been nothing.

He won the scholarship a month after I left. According to Delly, the examiners had been so astounded by his effort that they had arranged an exhibition for his work. Delly said that everything on show was either incredibly detailed, or incredibly emotional. The few photos she attached made me feel sick. It looked like he had taken my advice. Many of the paintings were of a younger version of himself cowering under an exaggerated shadow shaped like his mother or of bruised limbs.

They were so raw. So true.

Saying that it felt like a punch in the stomach was an understatement. It was like he was personally getting revenge on me. But Peeta had won his scholarship and we lost each other, which I think was healthier for the two of us in the long run.

I eat my microwaved meal in front of the TV, and although the mindless reality show I watch makes me laugh a little, I quickly fall asleep. When I wake the following morning, I realise that I didn't have any nightmares. I had a solid ten hours of good rest. I ignored the fact that my dreams were filled with images of Peeta laughing or him lying beside me with sunlight streaming around him or long walks in the city park in midwinter. Or that it was his presence in my mind that soothed me.

 

The tips at the diner steadily start to increase again, and I manage to pay my rent with mere dollars to spare. But with Mom's funeral costs to repay on top of everything else, I find myself making scruffy little cards with my number on them which I slide under the doors of the local apartments I know have kids in them in an effort to earn more cash through babysitting.

I sit at my kitchen table one morning, listening to the rain hammer on the windows battling against the sound of the dripping faucet in the kitchen, and think about how depressing my life really is. Dad and Prim wouldn't have wanted this for me, and Mom wouldn't have either before she lost her mind. I'm twenty three, work at a diner earning below the minimum wage, and I live in a building that is, for the most, inhabited by drug addicts, alcoholics, and single parents who couldn't afford anything better.

Peeta drifts into my thoughts. I wonder where he is right now. Is he still living in the apartment we bought together? Has he moved on to a bigger place? Has he made fortune? Is he living the life of a successful artist? Has he moved on and found another girl to love?

Jealousy overtakes me at the thought of him being with someone else. I can't email Delly and demand to know his address, phone number and relationship status without sounding suspicious, and knowing Delly, who's a gossip at best, it wouldn't be long before Peeta would find out that I wanted to know his life story since we broke up.

I grab my laptop and begin sleuthing. It doesn't take long for me to find out information about him and I scold myself for not thinking about Google earlier. There's a news article about him from about a year ago when I type his name into the search engine. The headlines reads:

_Rising Contemporary Artist Attends the International Art Association Ball_

I read through the report and find that Peeta has made quite a name for himself on the art scene. It's the pictures provided that really make me take a breath, however. He hasn't really changed since I last saw him. His hair is still golden, his eyes are still stunningly blue. The suit he wears on the red carpet at the ball fits him like a glove, and his smile is so wide that I find myself smiling along at the screen. Beside him is a girl. My smile fades.

Her hair is short, cropped almost as short as Peeta's and is styled in vicious looking spikes. She has more skin uncovered than covered, and the way she has her arm looped through Peeta's and how she laughs along with him says it all. She doesn't look like the kind of girl Peeta would go for, but then again, what do I know? He looks happy. Why should I be bitter?

I squint at the caption beneath the image, my heart pounding.

_Peeta Mellark walked the red carpet with 'muse' JJ Mason, though rumours that she is more than just his artistic inspiration have caught fire in recent weeks._

I swallow and lean back in my seat, staring at the photo of Peeta and JJ Mason. This was taken a year ago. Who knows what could have happened since then? And rumours of them being in a relationship were exactly that- rumours. I Google the pair of them and find nothing that confirms that they dated and I don't know whether I feel relief at this or further anxiety.

An additional article is about his artwork. Another exhibition took place and some of his earlier paintings were auctioned off; the painting called Childhood Scars selling for sixty thousand dollars. I gape at the number in shock. The article continues on:

_Mr Mellark gave all the money from the paintings to charity however, telling our reporters that he isn't aiming to become rich. 'All I want is to be able to paint and make people stop and stare. I want to make people think and feel something. I want people to pause and be transported to another time or place through my work, and if I can do that, I'd say I've succeeded'._

The most recent report is from a few months ago and speculates about Peeta's next set of works.

_Although nothing has been confirmed by Mr Mellark or his associates, there is speculation that he is experimenting with various types of media, and is going to branch out into photography. Will he prove to be a master of the camera as well as the brush? We sure hope so._

That makes sense. Peeta didn't just love painting and sketching, he also adored taking photos of whatever caught his eye. I bought him a camera for his birthday and he spent the day snapping photos of me, and whenever he went anywhere he'd have his camera with him. His natural eye for picking beauty out of ordinary things shone through even in photos.

Peeta has been doing well, then. Without me. I close the laptop and pull a beer from the fridge. No need to dwell on the past.

 

I'm sitting with Leevy on my lunch break at the diner when I come across a perplexing advert in the employment section of a newspaper.

__

Wanted: Female models for photo-shoot

Fixed pay of $100 per hour

No experience required.

Details will be further arranged.

There's a number and an email address below the job details. I scowl at the paper suspiciously.

"Leevy?" I say. Leevy raises her eyebrows at me to encourage me to speak since her mouth is filled with food. "Have you ever modelled?"

"What do you mean?" she asks, holding her hand over mouth.

"Modelling. You know, posing in front of a camera for a clothing brand or something?"

"With a face like mine, nah. But I did once get selected to model footwear. I have nice feet apparently," she says with a grin, pointing her foot in the air and pouting. I laugh and take a sip of my coffee. "Why'd you ask?"

"I don't know. I'm looking for a different job and found this," I say, circling the advert with a pen and sliding it across the table.

"Do you think you're going to go for it?"

"No! Of course not," I say with a shake of my head.

"Why not?"

"I'd never be picked. I'm not model-worthy."

"Shut up," Leevy says with a roll of her eyes. "You're gorgeous, Kat."

"Whatever," I dismiss her, taking the paper back and rereading the advert. "Don't you think it sounds a little shady? How do I know if this person isn't a serial killer?"

"I've become so used to the people around here that I don't know the difference between someone being nice and someone being creepy."

"That's a lie," I say. "You totally dissed that guy a few weeks ago."

"The one giving me the stink eye as I bent down to pick up those napkins?"

"Yup."

"Well, he was being weird staring at my ass like that."

"You should model then," I raise my eyebrows. "Obviously your ass is attractive."

Leevy gives me a sarcastic smile and throws a chip at me. "Careful, Everdeen, 'cus I'm gonna whoop your ass if you keep treating me like that."

 

The advert stays in my mind all day.

My curiosity gets the better of me, and before I know it, I'm emailing the advert back. One hundred dollars per hour is double the amount I make in a single day at the diner, and if I worked for, say, three hours, I'd make bank. I open a new email, roll my shoulders and begin to type. It takes almost an hour to write something that doesn't sound utterly ridiculous.

_Hi,_

_I saw your advert in the Panem Press asking for models. I am interested in this job offer, and it would be appreciated if you could email me as soon as you can with some more details of what the job will entail._

I flounder at how to sign the email off, so I just put my initials. If I didn't get the job or they saw me and decided I wasn't pretty enough, I would be mortified to have them know my name.

The following morning I have a reply. The person tells me where to meet them for my test shoot, that they'll probably need me to come back occasionally for other photo shoots if everything works out.

But what surprises me is one of the requests.

_Some shoots may require nude shots, though if you feel at all uncomfortable, I will find someone else who is willing._

My cheeks flush red. Nude shots? I'm not shy about my body, but I'm not exactly confident about it either. I certainly wouldn't feel comfortable with stripping off for a total stranger. I swallow. The person said that they would find another model if I didn't want to be involved in nude photographs. I don't want to lose out on such a well-paying opportunity. I don't respond for a few days, though my mind is constantly weighing the pros and cons of the job. I need the money, that's obvious, and I could ask that my identity is kept anonymous.

I bite the bullet three days after receiving a response.

_I've decided to accept your offer of the job and all its conditions. When do you need me at your studio?_

It turns out that the studio is just a twenty-five minute drive from my apartment yet far enough away from this area to be in the more expensive, more modern part of the city. My heart pounds as I drive, and my mind works in overdrive as I worry about all manner of things.

Will the photograph be a creepy old guy? Will other people be there? Will it be just me and the photographer? Does he or she expect me to be caked in makeup? What photos am I going to be involved in? What are these photos going to be used for?

These are all questions I should have asked before saying that I would be his or her model, but I can't back out now. I'm being relied on. I'm being paid just to stand in front of a camera for a couple of hours. Surely it's the easiest job ever.

The location I was given reveals itself as what appears to be refurbished factory, divided into separate offices. I park outside, lock my car doors, and walk up the path to the front door. The receptionist in the pristine lobby seems to already know who I am and sends me straight up to the studios. I can't help but compare the building to my own, and using a lift that doesn't hold a risk of plummeting to the ground gives me a sense of calm. In a place like this, the photographer can't be some pervert. It has to be someone who is taking photos for a legitimate reason.

The door to the studio is essentially just a huge panel of frosted glass with the number twelve etched into it. I steel myself by taking a few deep breathes, and I ignore the way my hand shakes when I lift it to knock on the door. I see the blurred outline of someone walking towards the door and wipe my hands on my jeans nervously.

The door swings open to reveal a woman who appears to be just a few years older than me. Her chin length hair is choppy and messy and her eye makeup is severe. It looks like she's wearing nothing but a kimono. For some reason her face looks familiar.

"Yes?" she says, raising a manicured eyebrow.

"Uh, I… I'm here for- for-"

"For what? The photo shoot?" the girl says. I nod, blushing furiously at my apparent lack of conversational skills.

"Oh, alright then. Come on in," she says, stepping back and opening the door further.

The inside of the studio is beautiful. Simply laid out and decorated with canvases and sculptures, it gives off a professional and modern vibe as well as feeling welcoming. The floors are shiny and the walls are clean. In the little foyer there is a bench and a cabinet with a bunch of flowers in a vase on top, and I can see what looks like a kitchen to the right. It's so understated yet so welcoming at the same time. Just the thought of the state my apartment is in compared to this place makes me depressed. And this isn't even someone's home. It's their workplace. How is it fair that my home is more run-down than a warehouse conversion?

Directly ahead is a long corridor with a door at the end and a door on one of the sides. The door at the end is filled with light. The smell of well-made coffee, paints and baked goods not only makes my stomach rumble, but reminds me of how Peeta used to smell. I shift nervously.

"So, welcome to District 12," the girl says. "I'm Johanna, but most people call me JJ or just Jo. You're KE, right?"

"Uh, yeah. Well, Katniss is my name, but I think I'd like to keep my identity to myself… if that's okay?"

"Yeah, sure. That's fine," the girl gives me a strange look and I bite my lip. "So, _Katniss_ , you done any modelling before?"

"When I was a kid I entered a few school pageant-style things, but otherwise I've done nothing."

"A newbie, huh?" Johanna says with a twist of her lips that I can only describe as a smirk.

"Yeah."

"Well, come and meet my partner in crime," she tells me, turning and walking down the corridor, her bare feet slapping against the floor. I adjust my bag over my shoulder and twist the end of my braid nervously as I follow her.

"Yo, baker boy, the model's here!" she shouts, sashaying into the most beautiful room I've ever seen. It's a huge space with high ceilings, some walls made of exposed brick, the others painted a basic white. There are various setups around the room, and one wall has huge windows that overlook the city. I look around with wide eyes. There's a set with a bed, a standard white-background, and brightly painted corner, and various props and rails of clothing are scattered about. Johanna flops down on a beautifully upholstered chaise and smiles serenely at me.

"There's normally more than two people here. Annie – she's the makeup and outfits guru – is usually here but she's busy somewhere else today. There's other models as well of course."

"Oh," I say, giving her a nod, unsure of what else I can say. "Is these somewhere I can put my bag?" I ask.

"Yeah. There's a coat rack over there, by the door." I turn and hang my bag up on one of the hooks, before slipping off my jacket and hooking it on as well. I'm deliberating between turning off my cell or not when I hear a voice.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting, I hope Johanna was nice to you." I whirl around.

Oh, _shit._

I take in the man standing in front of me. Blond, effortlessly tousled waves and blue eyes as wide as mine... it couldn't be...

"Peeta?" I ask in disbelief.

"Katniss…" Peeta says, my name coming out of his mouth in a sort of sigh.

"You two know each other?" Johanna snorts from the chaise. "Oh, this has just got a whole lot more interesting."

Meanwhile, I feel like my brain has just exploded. Peeta Mellark as in Peeta Mellark is the photographer. I blink. Peeta has stopped moving and is just staring at me. I gape at him. I glance at Johanna who gives me a wink. Now it makes sense. Johanna is JJ Mason, the girl on Peeta's arm in the photos from the red carpet last year. I knew she looked familiar and I couldn't put my finger on it. Now everything is falling into place to make sense.

"What are you doing here?" he breathes.

"I'm the model." I whisper, absolutely mortified.

"You are?" he asks. I nod.

"Oh my God," I say. "What are odds of this happening?"

"A million to one, I think."

"Wait, how do you two know each other?" Johanna repeats.

"Jo, this is Katniss."

"I know, dumbass."

"As in _Everdeen_." Peeta continues, giving Johanna a serious look. I frown at whatever he's insinuating.

"Oh! Oh… Wow," she says with a short laugh. "Well, I'll leave you two to it." She leaps up from the sofa and glides out of the room. I hear the hiss of a kettle and her turn up the radio in the kitchen.

"You're the photographer?" I ask. "Why didn't I figure that out sooner?"

"You're the model?" Peeta asks. He looks confused. Astounded even.

"Is that going to be a problem?" I ask, suddenly defensive. Peeta shakes his head.

"No, of course not. I just… I wasn't expecting you, that's all."

"Talk about it," I retort. Peeta smiles. I fight my own, biting down on my tongue to halt the incoming word vomit.

It feels so good to be in his presence. After two years of not speaking to him or seeing him, it's like I've been relieved of some sort of weight on my shoulders. Seeing him again feels like breath of fresh air.

He looks well. Better than well.

In short he's still devastatingly handsome. He still has a crooked smile and blindingly white teeth and soft spun-gold hair and broad shoulders and a dimple on his right cheek and narrow hips and muscled arms and oh, those eyes are still as blue as I remember. I feel like I'm a deer caught in headlights under that gaze.

"Okay, wow. Let me just get my head around this," he says. He gestures for me to sit down on the chaise and drags over a stool to sit on so that he's opposite me. He runs his hand through his hair and exhales loudly. I just stare at the way his arm moves.

"You saw an advert for modelling, we unknowingly emailed each other, and you even agreed to model nude?"

"Yeah," I say, trying to appear calm even though inside I'm flailing because the word nude sounds so delicious rolling off his tongue.

"Why?" Peeta asks. "I don't mean this offensively, but you never seemed like someone to model in the first place, never mind naked. You're too pure."

"I need the money to be honest," I say quietly. It sounds dirty when said out loud in that way. Peeta looks marginally surprised, but then he nods in understanding. I power on determinedly. "Besides, it isn't like you never took pictures of me or painted me when I was naked in the past."

Its Peeta's turn to blush this time, but I join in with his embarrassment when Johanna (who has clearly been eavesdropping) shouts:

"Mellark you _dog_!" followed by raucous laughter.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have said that in front of your girlfriend." I say, twisting my fingers in my lap.

Peeta chuckles. "Oh, Jo isn't my girlfriend. Far from it. We actually hate each other."

"That sounds like a good relationship to have," I joke with a raised eyebrow.

"Sometimes I don't think it is."

"Why are you looking for models?" I ask.

"I take photos for various magazines and fashion websites when I'm asked to. It's extra money. And I'm also trying to expand my portfolio outside of paintings."

It's a seamless answer.

"And why are you asking for nude models?"

"I'm focusing on the human form for my new project," Peeta says, not missing a beat. "It's going to be in my next exhibition."

"So pictures of me are going to be stared at by strangers?"

"Paintings of you have been stared at by strangers already. What's the difference?"

"There's a big difference between paintings and photographs."

"You're the one who was willing to come to a stranger's studio and strip off."

"Hey, don't make this sound sordid," I say indignantly.

"How did you know whether I was actually going to be an axe-wielding murderer?" Peeta asks.

"Why are murderers always wielding axes?" I deflect. "I can think of a thousand different weapons that would be much more effective at murder."

"So you still have a sense of humour," Peeta says gently. I nod as if it's obvious. Peeta licks his lips before he speaks, and I find myself staring at the lines of his jaw and his lips. I wonder if they're still as soft as they were, if they would still be able to reduce me to a quivering heap.

Probably.

"How have you been?" he asks, pulling me out of my brief stupor. I blush, feeling heat roll over my cheeks.

"What time frame are you looking for?"

"The last two years."

"Well, I've got a shitty apartment with too much rent to pay and a disgusting landlord and I work at a diner earning five dollars an hour, but other than that, I'm living the good ol' American Dream."

"I'm sorry, I guess."

I guess? What does he mean buy 'I guess'?

"How about you?" I immediately say. "You're obviously doing better than I am."

"I'm doing alright," Peeta shrugs, reaching a hand back and rubbing the back of his neck. I stare at his biceps. Jesus Christ. "I got my scholarship and everything's been going pretty well. I bought this studio about a year ago. It's fun having my own creative space, and it's great because it means I don't have to set up shoots in a kitchen or a bedroom. The studio back home was too small for anything other than painting, really."

"You still live in our apartment?"

"Yeah… Does that bother you?"

"No."

"I just, never moved… My art took off and… the apartment is sort of perfect. It's not too far from the studio or museums… so I didn't think about finding a new place."

"This studio is pretty fancy," I tell him, uncrossing and crossing my legs. His eyes dart downwards.

"It's alright," he says nonchalantly.

"Can you show me around?"

"There isn't much to see," he says. I shrug my shoulders. Peeta directs me around the studio. There's a full bathroom leading on from the kitchen, the second mystery door along the corridor leads to a bedroom, and a private stairwell leading up to the roof.

"Although there's other studios in this building, I'm the only one who really uses it for anything."

He offers me a drink and shows me some of the photos he's taken and the paintings he's most proud of, and I find myself stunned each time he turns the page of his portfolio or reveals another canvas.

"All of these are amazing," I say, looking up. I don't realise how close his face is to mine and flinch back slightly. If he notices my reaction, he doesn't say anything about it.

"Right, I think we should get started with some test photos," he says, snapping the portfolio shut. I feel my nerves return once more and shake my limbs out. "Annie is our resident makeup and clothing artist, but today we've got Jo instead." he explains, leading me down to one end of the studio. Johanna pushes me down into a chair and narrows her eyes. Peeta pats her on the shoulder.

"Play nice, Jo. Remember not everyone suits ten pounds of black eye shadow," he says playfully. Johanna gives his retreating form a middle finger.

"Go play with some cameras and lights, baker boy," she sneers. Peeta laughs and disappears behind a set wall.

Johanna applies what feels like about ten pounds of makeup to my face and yanks out most of my hair, but when she hands me a mirror to - and I quote – 'examine the damage' I find myself looking at a natural looking face. My eyeliner is a simple cat eye and my lipstick is a soft shade of pink. My hair has been just been taken out of its braid and made more voluminous with the help of some backcombing and hairspray. I actually kind of look good.

"What shoot is this?" I ask.

"Just a test shoot, really, but it's also something for some pretentious clothing line."

I cringe at the outfits Johanna pulls from the clothes rack. She puts me in a pair of high-waisted distressed denim shorts, and cropped top with 'fuck everyone' written on it, and a pair of terrifyingly high shoes. When she sees my face, however, she swaps them for a pair of studded boots with the zips undone and loads my wrists with heavy bracelets.

When I finally get in front of the camera, I can feel Peeta's eyes on me. Johanna stands beside him and watches me intently as Peeta snaps away. I feel awkward and clunky and can't seem to act normal. I try to mimic what I've seen online and in magazines. I'm pretty sure I look like a gangly freak.

Peeta encourages me to do this or that and his praise is like winning a golden ticket. He shows Johanna the images and she nods, giving suggestions and gesturing with her hand. Peeta nods as I stand there.

"Outfit change!" Johanna shouts, hauling me away to change again.

"How am I doing?" I ask anxiously. I can feel myself sweating.

"You're doing well, kid," she says. "You're not 'posing' like other models do. Peeta hates that. You just look… good."

"Thanks," I whisper. Johanna hands over some more clothes. This time it's a flowy skirt, a patterned bralet and a flower crown.

I go through a few other outfit changes over the next few hours and by the end of the four hours I spend in the studio, I feel way more confident and strong than I did when I first came in. If every shoot is going to be as easy as this, I'll be fine. The voice in my head tells me that it'll be totally different once I'm naked. That I'll be timid and embarrassed all over again when I have to lounge about in nothing but whatever Peeta puts me in. I force myself to ignore the voice.

Peeta thanks me and hands me a cheque for four hundred dollars before I leave.

"This was great, Katniss," he says with a genuine smile. "It was nice seeing you again."

"Same here," I say. "I hope we can do this again sometime."

"I think I'll let you stick around," he smirks. "Just email me or call if you have any questions about the job. You'll be contacted if we need you."

"Okay. See you around."

The bounce in my step is unmistakable as I walk towards the elevator, and I smile at my reflection on the journey to the first floor. I order the most expensive pizza on the takeaway menu of the local pizzeria and buy a bottle of celebratory wine for tonight's meal as well as cashing in the check. When I waltz into Cray's office and pay this month's rent, the look on his face is priceless as he stares at the money on the table.

"Did ya rob a fucking bank?" he asks, staring at the bills as I've just thrown Monopoly pieces at him.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I say, slamming his office door.

 

Later that night, as I sip wine and eat pizza in front of the TV, I realise how my rash decision to go for a stint at modelling has resulted in Peeta and I meeting again. I think about how cautious I was after breaking up with him. I haven't been with anyone else since then, and I've be careful about anyone and everyone. Even though I've tried to ignore everything to do with Peeta, I can see now that we were stupid, barely old enough to drink, and didn't think about what we were doing before we had done it.

The idea of posing nude in front of Peeta and his camera is suddenly a whole lot more daunting, yet the thrill that rolls down my spine is anything but.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reviews, and thank you to loueze for being my beta!  
> Enjoy!

Chapter Two

I'm called back to Peeta's studio just four days later. I reread the email he sends me ten times over to make sure I know what I'm required to do, but as the days pass I come to be more overcome with both excitement and anxiety. I try to reassure myself. For my first ever actual shoot, being told that I had done well was high praise. And having that praise come from Peeta is even better- it feels so much more important.

I arrive promptly at nine thirty and he opens the door with an almost timid smile.

"Hey," he greets me, closing the door once I've stepped inside. "How are you?"I can already feel my skin burn under his gaze.

"I'm okay," I tell him, looking away. "You?"

I can feel the tension between the two of us. There are emotions that were never properly dealt with between us and I'm afraid if I try to bring it up, it could jeopardise what could be a good thing for me. I've always hated working at the diner. After high school I wanted to study Biology, but after breaking up with Peeta, everything seemed to go downhill. I couldn't afford tuition and resorted to putting my studies aside until I sorted my expenses out… which never happened.

But by simply allowing people to dress me up and push me in front of a camera, I made four hundred dollars for what honestly was only two hours of actual work. The rest of the time was made up of camera, clothing or lighting changes. If someone had told me six months ago that I would be modelling, I would never have believed them.

"Excited for today," Peeta says, enthusiasm evident in his voice. "Jo and I were talking the other day about all the stuff we've got planned. For the time being it's going to be just clothing lines and such until I'm fully prepared to start my own projects."

"Right," I nod. "So what's happening today?"

"We'll be using different locations… going onto the roof, and further out in the city," he takes my coat from me and smiles. "We'll be incorporating some other models as well. I think it's-"

"When are you planning on the nude shots?" I interrupt. He falters. I scrunch my face up in embarrassment. Jesus Christ, Katniss. Despite my mortification at my blabber mouth, it feels good to finally ask. Ever since I sent that first email inquiring about the job, I've been dubious about the prospect of baring myself. At the start I wasn't nervous; being naked in front of strangers would make it easier to isolate my emotions from the situation. But Peeta isn't a stranger. Far from it. He knows every dip and curve of my body. He knows me on an intimate level. I can pretend as much as I like that it doesn't matter. That it isn't making me feel things I thought I wouldn't feel again.

I walked out because of a childish argument, and have worked hard at trying to forget him. Yet here I am, working under his camera lens. So of course I won't be able to isolate myself, even if I wanted to.

Back when we were a couple, I allowed him to photograph me when we were together. He liked to take snaps of me in what he called a 'natural' state, which often meant photos of me doing menial tasks like washing dishes or reading a book or watching the TV. I always knew that he just liked taking pictures of me, no matter what I was doing. And that included when it was just the two of us.

_"Fuck," Peeta gasps, his grip on my hips tightening as I move above him harder. I release a breathy moan, clenching my walls around his cock every time he surges into me, determined to make him come first._

_"Can you feel me?" I rasp, rolling my hips forward to stimulate my clit, my hair falling down my back and over my shoulders. I lightly scratch my nails down his chest and his squeezes his eyes shut. "You're so big, Peeta. You feel so good."_

_His jaw clenches and I throw back my head and move faster, sliding up and down the length of his cock. I call his name, knowing the sound of it falling from my lips will get him off. I don't realise he's taking photos of me until I notice the absence of his hands on my hips, look down, and am met with a camera lens._

_"What are you doing?" I ask, panting with the exertion of riding him like this._

_"Just – ugh – keep going," he pleads._

_I narrow my eyes, faltering slightly, heat blossoming over my cheeks. "This isn't porn, Peeta."_

_"No," he groans, his eyes dark. "It's art." I bite my lip and run my hands over my breasts, grinding and swirling my hips in figures of eight. The click of the shutter is the only sound except for our heavy breathing._

_"Are you close?" I ask a minute later as my stomach begins to tighten. He's stopped taking pictures now and has his head tilted back on the pillow, the pale skin of his neck and the sharp line of his jaw exposed to the ceiling, his hands holding tightly onto my thighs, pulling me down even harder onto him._

_"Are you?" he challenges, his voice taking on the whiny tone that tells me he's on the verge of coming._

_"Yes," I moan, swiping the camera from where he dropped it on the mattress beside him. "Let go, Peeta. Let go for me."_

_He grunts out his agreement and thrusts his hips upwards in a way that makes my legs feel like jelly; once, twice, three times, letting out a long, low groan as he finally comes. Watching him come almost makes me join him. His entire face contorts, his mouth falling open and his eyes scrunching shut. I'll have bruises on my thighs tomorrow. I press the shutter button on the camera as he comes, my own body thrumming at how erotic it feels recording him in fragments through the little screen. When he finally recovers, he runs his hands up and down my thighs and smiles, his gaze already growing sleepy._

_"What are you-?" he smirks and I smile down at him even though I'm on the cusp of my own orgasm. "Did you- did you take pictures of me when I came?" I nod, biting my lip, and his cheeks redden slightly before a lazy smile works its way over his face._

_He takes the camera and places it on the nightstand before tucking me underneath him with one of his wrestling moves."You haven't come yet, have you?" he murmurs, his lips merely brushing over mine._

_"No," I say, tracing his jaw with my tongue. He captures my mouth with his, his tongue sliding along mine, as his hand dips down and a thick finger slides inside of me._

_"You're so wet," he whispers, tugging on my bottom lip with his teeth and adding another finger. I squirm, digging my nails into his sides._

_"Make me come, please," I beg._

_He covers me with wet, open-mouthed kisses down to my chest, capturing one nipple between his teeth and nipping at it gently, before moving on over my stomach to my centre. My thighs lock around his head at the first touch of his tongue to my folds so he presses my legs open as far as they will go against the sheets, and sucks determinedly on my clit, holding me down with one arm. My back arches on the mattress, tugging on his unruly golden curls._

_"Peeta!"_

_It takes no time for me to climax, and by then, Peeta is hard again. He pushes into me without a pause, grinding hard against me until we both come again. He flops down onto the bed beside me, his chest rising and falling dramatically. Post-coital bliss washes over me as I listen to us catching our breath. He snaps another photo._

_"So beautiful," he whispers, and I don't know if it's to himself or to me directly, but I curl up beside him and kiss the spot over his heart anyway._

He turned one of the pictures he took of me and one of the pictures I took of him into paintings that complimented each other. I wonder idly if he still has them, or if he rid himself of everything that was related to me. Perhaps he burned them and danced as they were reduced to ashes. I can see why he would, considering what I said to him.

I shake my head. This is business and nothing else. The relationship I used to have with Peeta is over and it won't do well to dwell on it. Even if we built up a new partnership from this work, it would never be the same as it used to be.

"I- I'm sorry," I backtrack, glancing briefly at Peeta. "It's just been on my mind ever since I applied for the job. I didn't even know if I would be accepted and I am still a little nervous about it. I guess I'm worried about it being launched on me."

"That's completely understandable," he says with a reassuring smile, leading the way into the kitchen. It's a clean, stylish room with black marble tops and white cabinets. At the end is a little nook with a couch and TV tucked in the corner.

"I'll tell you what I'm planning for different shoots, of course, but its fine that you feel nervous about it. I know how you feel."

My eyebrows shoot up. Peeta doesn't seem fazed. "You've posed nude before?"

"Once or twice," he shrugs. "Just reference photos. Nothing graphic."

"Oh." I bite my lip and mull that over for a second, wondering who was behind the camera when Peeta was posing naked.

"You want a coffee or something?" he offers, not noticing my thoughtful stare.

"Just a glass of water, please," I say, adjusting the strap of my bag over my shoulder.

"But yeah, I promise not to surprise you," he continues. "I know how much you hate surprises." I blink, taking the glass of water from him.

"Uh… I'm sorry. I just meant-" he flounders, rubbing the back of his neck.

"It's fine." I mumble. Peeta nods.

"Anyway," he clears his throat. "We'll warn you what to expect beforehand so you can be prepared… and that really makes it sound so seedy. It's not going to be…I mean, we're planning on doing a shoot possibly next month on the bed…" he trails off, flushing bright red.

"I think I know what you're trying to say," I tell him, sensing his struggle.

"I don't know why I can't talk today," he apologises. "Johanna can show you some stuff we've done before if you want to get an idea of scope." I gulp down my water, not trusting myself to speak.

"If you want to stop for any reason, at any time, just say. I don't want you to feel like you have to do anything. Just ask any of us." Peeta clears his throat nervously. "You'll be posing with Finnick today - he's an old friend. The camera loves him – he will be super helpful if you want advice from a professional."

"Alright, thank you," I smile at him and pass the glass back.

"I have to warn you though. Finn's a huge flirt."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. He's been here for a good hour being a nuisance," he rolls his eyes and heads out through the kitchen and into the studio. I hesitate in the doorway. "Ready to go?" Peeta asks.

I take a deep breath."Yeah, I'm ready."

 

"Today you're modelling dresses. Finn was here yesterday to do a single person shoot because he's so popular, but now we need you two together," Johanna informs me as she winds a lock of my hair around a curling iron.

"Why can't I have single shoot as well?" I ask before I can bite my tongue.

"Because taking you on is a risk, and Finnick is an insurance plan."

"Oh." I furrow my brow. I didn't think taking me on would be an issue. I mean, Peeta doesn't have to book me for anything. Now I think about it, I suppose that letting an unknown be in a shoot that is helping pay for Peeta's life really is a gamble.

Johanna has just finished my hair when a lithe brunette appears. She thanks Johanna for doing my hair and is introduced as Annie, and as she applies make up to my face with gentle strokes of a brush, she complements me on my complexion.

"You have such beautiful colouring," she says softly, leaning back to scrutinise her work. The silver chain around her neck glints, the 'F' hanging on it catching my eye. "I'm so pale. I bet you tan easily as well."

"I hardly ever burn," I say with a laugh. Annie rolls her eyes.

"Now I know why Peeta wanted to shoot you and Finn together," she says, rifling through a seemingly endless table of cosmetics. "You two will look amazing."

I scoff. "I'm pretty sure it's just good makeup."

"Well, not everyone can pull off eyeliner like this," Annie says, handing me a eyes nearly bulge out of my head. I look like a crazy person. The contouring is severe, my lips are stained a deep plum, and my eyes are heavy with feathered false eyelashes. The eyeliner is an extreme cat eye, but loops around my eyelid Lorde 'Royals' style, with glittering gel surrounding it. It looks ridiculous, but makes me feel fierce- like I could kill a then Annie wheels in the rack of dresses I need to wear.

Okay. Now I understand the war paint.

I don't even know how to describe them. All I can think of is that they look like steampunk Disney princess gowns. They're a mix between lace and spikes. My mouth falls open.

"What kind of fashion is this?"

"The crazy kind," Annie laughs. "Just wait here. I need to find Peeta and Jo to work out which outfit you need to wear first."Annie disappears and I stand, making my way over to the rack of dresses. I run my fingertips over them, feeling the silky material, watching the light catch on the gems and sequins. All of them are so beautiful. Insane, but still beautiful, yet not what I would wear for just a trip to the convenience store, for example.

I hate to think how much they are worth. Peeta must be a well-established photographer if he's been tasked with fashion like this. Heck, he's only twenty three – twenty four, now, since I missed his last birthday – and he's already come this far.

"You must be the extraordinaire model Peeta was talking about," a deep voice rumbles from behind me. I whirl around to find a tall, tanned, toned man standing just a few feet away. In nothing but a pair of very tight boxers. I blush and avert my gaze.

"Miss Everdeen," he says, smirking, completely fine with being virtually naked with a stranger. I mean, not that he has anything to be worried about, but still.

"Are you Finnick?" I ask.

He raises an eyebrow, his smirk growing bigger. "So you've heard of me?"

"I've been warned that you're a huge flirt." I deadpan. Finnick laughs.

"I'm taken, and I don't like that insinuation," he says, stepping closer to me.

I can't help it. I glance down, taking in his steel-cut abs, and briefly (pun intended) his boxers. I look up and flush even deeper. Finnick just smiles at me, revealing two rows of ridiculously white teeth. "I model underwear sometimes. For obvious reasons," he purrs.

"Sorry to say, that's not the most impressive junk I've ever seen," I shrug. He lets out a low whistle but doesn't have enough time to formulate to witty response because Peeta, Jo, and Annie appear. Peeta sighs, running his hand through his hair.

"You can't keep running around like this," he says to Finn. "I'm not running a brothel here."

"Oh, but you wish you could be," Finn replies. Annie swats him on the arm and drags him over to dress him in a suit.

"What's the plan for today, boss?" she asks Peeta, pulling a crisp shirt from a hanger.

"Well, the theme of the shoot is 'Fashion of the Future', so we'll be going outside, if the weather holds, possibly onto the roof. I'm got a location in mind, but today I just want to work with what we have around us," he glances down at the iPad in his hand. "Annie, how long will it take to have everything ready?"

"Ten minutes, tops," Annie reports, adjusting Finnick's tie. "I just need to organise the dresses. Jo, can you do Katniss' nails?"

Everyone bustles around me. Peeta disappears only to return a minute later with two large camera bags slung over his shoulders. Annie moves Finnick's suits onto the same rack as my dresses and covers the whole thing with plastic sheeting before wheeling it out of the studio as Peeta holds open the door. Johanna sits me down again and pulls out a set of pre-painted false nails and starts applying them to my cuticles with astonishing speed.

"How do you guys manage?" I ask, watching my own bitten nails being replaced with glossy falsies.

"Manage what?" Johanna asks, holding a cuticle pusher between her teeth as she files my nails down.

"Manage this?" I say. "On America's Next Top Model, they have like a thousand people on site to do everything. And here it's just three people."

"You think us models don't have to work as well?" Finnick scoffs. "Christ, we're like slaves. I can't remember how many times I've been hauled in to hold a reflector disc or some shit on my day off."

"Stop complaining, pretty boy," Johanna scolds. "You're treated like a fucking celebrity," she inspects my nails before releasing my hands. I stare down at my fingers. They've never looked so good. "Peeta likes to work in a small team. We've had big crews before and it's been just a good, but baker boy likes keeping it simple. He still gets amazing shots, though."

"I'm not surprised," I mutter.

Johanna doesn't let me carry anything over fear of me breaking a nail so I end up seated in the back seat of a van with a rack of clothing to my left, boxes and camera supplies in front of me, and Finnick to my right.

"I saw your pictures from the other day," he says as he stares down at his smartphone. "They're good. Good for a first-timer."

"I had Peeta and Johanna telling me what to do," I shrug.

"Learn to take a compliment, girl on fire," he tells me. I narrow my eyes.

"Girl on fire?"

"I think that nickname suites you pretty well. At least I don't call you crazy."

"Who's crazy?" I ask.

Johanna suddenly jumps into the driver's seat and rolls down the window.

"Hurry up, fuckers!" she yells to Peeta and Annie.

Finnick fixes me with a look.

"That makes sense," I say, nodding my head. Johanna revs the engine.

"Alright bossy, calm down," Peeta says as he climbs into the seat beside her. Annie joins Finnick and I in the back and rolls her eyes as Peeta and Jo start bickering. I clutch my bag tightly in my hands.

This is so weird.

 

 

The first place we stop at is what looks to me like an old factory covered in graffiti. I don't see the appeal but Peeta looks enthusiastic, and leaps out with his second in command to begin setting things up.

"Finn, get out of the damn car," Annie says, rifling through the dresses. "Katniss needs to get dressed."

"Can't I stay?" he asks, his green eyes glittering. Annie just pushes him towards the door.

It's cramped back here, but Annie makes it work somehow.

"Why don't you just put on the dresses at the studio?" I ask as I wriggle out of my own clothes."They get wrinkled easily," she says, helping me pull the corset part of the dress on and fastening it at the back. Once dressed, I manage to get out of the car without much difficulty, and Annie fixes my hair again, spraying it full of hairspray.

She does the same to Finnick's hair, styling it effortlessly. I think of my standard everyday braid. I could never make someone's hair look that amazing just by running my fingers through it.

"Alright hotshots," Jo calls once Annie deems us acceptable. "Let's get this show on the road."

And so the day passes. At first I feel unsure with Finn, but once his flirtatious outer shell disappears he is a great person to work with. He makes me feel comfortable and has the same dry humour that I have, which gets us in trouble plenty of times with Peeta when we can't stop laughing.

He lifts me effortlessly despite the massive layered lacy contraption I'm in when we have to climb over a wall to reach another shoot location and gives me advice on where to look, where to place my feet, where to place my hands. It's easy to see why he's a model. He has the standard chiselled jaw and high cheekbones, but there's something about him that makes him different. I can't figure out what it is, but he manages to look amazing no matter what he's dressed in.

By lunchtime my feet are aching and my face hurts from having to concentrate on my facial expressions. Peeta announces that we'll continue shooting on the roof of the studio once we've eaten, and we return to Twelve.

I force Annie to let me help her carry something when we arrive, so she tasks me with carrying her makeup box, which turns out to be a lot heavier than I thought it was going to be. My own makeup collection consists of two mascaras, a crusty concealer, and about a thousand chapsticks since I always lose them and have to buy replacements.

Peeta disappears into the in-studio kitchen and makes us lunch. He refuses our offers to help and leaves the four of us to mill around in the studio. I can hear him bustling

around in the kitchen just a few meters away and itch to join him. I've never been a great cook, which meant that for the most, Peeta did all the cooking back at our old apartment while I 'assisted'. Not that I ever complained. I feel a sense of déjà vu having him cooking again.

"Hey, brainless," Johanna says, kicking me with her booted foot."Are you even listening?"

"Yeah… I am, I-" I trail off. "I just…"

"Distracted by something?" she continues, a smirk playing at her mouth. "Or should I say someone?"

"Johanna!" Annie exclaims, slapping her arm.

"What? It's pretty damn obvious you aren't listening to us!" Johanna says. I scowl at her. "Just go and talk to him for Christ's sake. You're driving me insane with that forlorn expression."

"I'm not forlorn," I fire back.

"Really?"

"Really."

"So you aren't going to join him… alright."

"Oh, Johanna. Don't be cruel," Annie says, leaning against Finnick. She gives me an encouraging smile. "Go talk to him, Katniss. We know you want to."

I chew on my lip. Johanna folds her arms over her chest and tilts her head to one side, challenging me. I grit my teeth. She's right and she knows it. She knows I know it. I sigh and stand up."Knew it," Johanna mutters as I turn and leave.

Standing in the doorway of the kitchen is incredibly daunting when your ex is standing there. Despite Johanna's jibes making me feel brave, now I just feel stupid. Why would Peeta want to talk to me? I really do want to talk to him. I've always enjoyed having conversation with him, because he's the kind of person who will just listen when needs be, or will argue a point with equal enthusiasm. I've missed it. I can't deny that.

"Knock, knock," I say to catch his attention. He looks up from the chopping board he's working at and flashes me a smile.

"Katniss, hey. I don't need any help. You go relax with everyone else. You deserve it."

"I was kind of kicked out," I say, stepping into the room and towards where he is. He raises his eyebrows.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah," I shove my hands in my pockets. "What are you making?"

"Nothing special. Just grilled cheese."

My mouth instantly waters. It was a joke between us two that if Peeta's artist career never took off, he would open a bakery/café.

"Knowing you it won't be 'just grilled cheese'," I say, mimicking his voice. "Your grilled cheese recipe is flawless."

"I wouldn't go as far to call it flawless," he laughs, chopping slices of cheese and piling them up on the counter. "But thanks."We lapse into silence and I just watch Peeta cooking. He coats each side of the bread slices with butter and grills them to golden-brown perfection whereas I always burn them.

"Are you sure I can't do anything?" I offer, feeling awkward.

"No, I insist. You're working for me. The least I can do is provide you with lunch."

"But I'm just standing there," I counter. "You're the one who has to actually take the photos and work with everything to get a good outcome."

"It's no trouble," he says, pulling the grilled bread out and loading them with cheese. I move aside so he can retrieve another knife from the drawer behind me, and as he begins slicing tomatoes, I realise what he's making. It's my favourite grilled cheese variation. Avocado and tomato. My stomach rumbles.

I move along the counter and grab an avocado from the fruit bowl on the island. Peeta is still preoccupied with the tomatoes so I cut the avocado open and begin preparing it just like Peeta taught me a good three years ago. I don't think I've eaten avocado in three years.

"Hey, I can do that," he says. I look up to find him watching me. I take a knife and stick it in the stone, twisting and pulling it out intact.

"It's no trouble," I say. He laughs and shakes his head. "You taught me that. How to properly prepare an avocado."

"You remember that?"

"Of course I do. It's a valuable skill to possess."

"I wasn't about to let you carry on with the horrendous method you had before."

"Excuse me," I say, turning to him and waving the knife around. "I did not have a 'horrendous' method."

"Yeah you did," he chuckles, leaning back slightly out of the path of the knife. "You wasted half of the avocado every single time."

"Whatever," I roll my eyes and begin scooping out the avocado for him to spread over all the grilled cheeses he's fall into the old routine we had with ease. I pass him the pepper grinder before he's even reached a hand out for it, and he locates a garlic press for me.

"This kitchen is stocked very well," I note.

"I'm here quite often, so it made sense to stock it up." Peeta shrugs.

"Art and cooking. Is this your idea of heaven?" I ask.

He looks up and meets my gaze."I suppose it is," he murmurs, reaching a hand out to brush his thumb over my cheek. "Eyelash," he explains. I blush and he smiles before pulling away to check on the sandwiches, acting as if nothing even happened. I help him tidy up and try to ignore the way my body feels like its thrumming.

Even though we've only actually been around each other for two days after two years apart, it feels like each minute lasts an hour. It's a good thing. I want to soak up his presence. I feel like a cold-blooded animal while Peeta is the sun. This time together has made me feel more alive than I have felt for a long time and to have him voluntarily touch me again feels amazing. I'm pretty sure he felt something too. I glance at him. His ears have turned pink.

"Well, isn't this domestic!" Johanna just has to spoil the moment by barging in. (Not that there really was a 'moment' to begin with, but I can pretend if I want).

"Katniss has been more helpful in about twenty minutes than you have in a good year," Peeta defends, plating up the sandwiches.

"Well she would know how to cook in your kitchen, wouldn't she?" Johanna says, her tone implying that she perhaps knows more than I would've thought. I look down at the floor. That girl doesn't seem to know when to speak and when to shut up.I wonder how much she knows about what Peeta and I used to have. If he told her that I was a decent person, or if he told her what I said to him in the heat of our last argument. I almost hope that he did. At least that way Johanna would know that I can be mean and have a spine. And a brain.

"Just sit down and eat," Peeta says, pushing a plate towards Johannaas she falls into one of the stools pulled up to the island. Annie and Finnick join us and we eat with steady conversation. Finnick complains about his agency boss, and Johanna and Annie argue about whether Finnick should cut his hair or not. Johanna's suggestion of a bowl cut doesn't go down well.

Peeta and I sit next to each other opposite the other three in silence. I'm enjoying my sandwich too much to even bother giving them my two cents.

"Thanks for helping me," Peeta says quietly as the argument across the table reaches it's loudest.

"It's alright," I say, taking a sip of water. I can't imagine that my breath is going to smell that amazing right now.

"I missed that," he continues, picking at the crust of his sandwich. I look down at my empty plate. Peeta has never loved eating crusts. "I missed cooking with you."

My heart races at his words. "Really? Why?"

"You're a great assistant."

"You're only saying that because I can't actually cook," I scowl at him, causing him to chuckle.

"That too."

I eye his plate. "Are you going to eat that crust?"

"I was just going to ask if you wanted it, actually," he says, offering me the plate. As I eat I realise just how intimate this is. Strangers wouldn't do this, but then I don't suppose we're strangers.

"Do you mind giving me your number?" Peeta asks. I almost choke and gulp down some water.

"W-what for?" I splutter.

"Just – just for work purposes," Peeta backtracks, sensing my surprise. "It's better to contact you via text than by email all the time. For emergencies and stuff. I don't have it anymore. I just thought-"

"No!" I exclaim, shaking my head. I don't want him to think I don't want him to have my number. He already looks a little thrown off. "I mean, yes. Yes you can have my work."

I rummage through my bag for my cell, grimacing as I finally pull it out. Peeta has what appears to be an iPhone 6, while I have the same phone I had when we were together, a brick Nokia from the Stone Age. I type my number into his phone and he messages me a smiley face emoticon. I save his profile and when I scroll through all five of my contacts, seeing his name there gives me a kind of rush.

 

 

Work commences again after the dirty dishes are loaded into the washer. Annie touches up hair and makeup. Johanna and Peeta haul lighting equipment up to the roof and Finnick and I change outfits.

Okay. This dress is actually mental.

I groan when Annie presents it to me, staring in disbelief. I can barely tell where the arm holes are, let alone how it's meant to look once it's on.

A rich ebony in colour, it starts off with jewels and sequins at the bottom that look like smouldering coal when I move and the skirts swish around my legs. The rest of the dress is made of feathers. They cover the bodice and flow over my shoulders and down my back. I feel a bit like a bird wearing it. A phoenix rising from the ashes. Finnick's suite has similar qualities to compliment it, but looks plain in comparison to this ridiculous garment. Annie has to lace me up at the back and uses numerous bobby pins to attach a feathered headdress to into my hair.

"Am I a bird or am I human?" I ask, wincing at the headdress digs into my scalp.

"I have no idea," she says, her brow furrowed as she adjusts my hair. "Capitol Fashion is known for having weird shoots."

I do a double take. "Wait, Capitol Fashion?!"

"You didn't know?"

"I thought this was going to be for some online boutique for crazy people, not for a huge fashion magazine! I can't be in something like that. No one knows who I am. Why didn't someone else do this?" I can feel myself panicking.

"Because we all believe in you and Capitol Fashion didn't specify who we could use, so Peeta and Johanna decided you'd be good for the job."

"But- but I-" I'm speechless.

Growing up, fashion wasn't a priority. Prim loved it, however, and read magazines like Capitol Fashion all the time. I'd flicked through them once or twice and hadn't seen the appeal of the clothing inside, nor the makeup. Yet here I am, doing exactly what I thought was stupid all those years ago.

This started as a way for me to have a little more cash. That was it. I never thought it would become anything else but now I'm going to be in one of the most popular publications in the country.

"You're going to go far," Finnick interrupts my internal breakdown. "And you have to realise that you wouldn't be here if people didn't think you could do it."

I take a deep breath. I'm okay. I can do this. Why I'm freaked out, even I don't really know. I'm overthinking everything. I'll be fine.

"Okay, I'm sorry," I say with a shake of my head.

"It's alright," Annie smiles, giving my shoulder a pat as we head for the stairwell leading to the roof. Finnick walks ahead and I lift my skirts as we climb.

Peeta and Johanna decided you'd be good for the job, I tell myself.

Peeta decided you'd be good for the job.

I can't believe Peeta thought I was the model he wanted for such an important job. Capitol Fashion is on every newsstand. I've seen the models they have on the front cover. People like Kate Moss and Gisele Bündchen. Insanely respected models who earn millions.

Meanwhile I'm plain old Katniss Everdeen. I don't have what supermodels have. Pretty dresses and carefully applied makeup can't hide that fact. Prim would be more suited for this job, with her big blue eyes, soft golden hair, and elegant nature. I'm not elegant. I'm a mess 90% of the time.

Walking in front of the camera and the lights suddenly feels so much more daunting and my nerves show through pretty quickly. No matter what anyone says to me, I'm wooden and the relative ease I felt just an hour earlier is gone. Peeta calls for a break and I stand there, trying not to hyperventilate. I'm going to ruin this for everyone. The pressure is getting to me now.

"Is something wrong?" Peeta asks. I jump, not aware that he was beside me. "You seem nervous. This morning you were so confident."

"I'm sorry," I gasp, twisting the rings on my fingers around and around. "I didn't know that this was for Capitol Fashion."

"You're feeling under pressure?" he asks, stilling my fidgety hands with his own. I nod. His touch was always able to calm me. He smiles at me in understanding. "Katniss, honestly, you aren't the kind of person to be affected by a magazine. I mean, you always said that fashion was impractical-"

"-and unpredictable." I finish his sentence for him.

"I have no doubts that you're right for this job."

"You're just saying that."

"I'm not."

"You are. To make me feel better. I mean, come on. Look at Finnick and then look at me. I'm not model-material. Not by a long shot."

"Stop putting yourself down." His blue eyes are sincere.

"I'm telling the truth though, aren't I?" I say, my voice breaking. I feel embarrassed. I can't believe I'm reacting like this to something most people would be ecstatic about.

Yes, I'm proud that I could be deemed good enough for this, but at the same time I feel lost. I've never had opportunities like this before. I don't know what to do. This seems like something so much bigger than I can handle, and I can't even be classed at a model yet.

"No, I think you're scared," Peeta says, as if he can read my thoughts. "You really don't need to be. You look beautiful in all the photos we've taken so far, but your nerves are showing through."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask.

"Tell you what?"

"That this was for Capitol Fashion."

"I didn't think you'd care," he furrows his brow. "Normally you wouldn't have."

I stay silent. He's right. But when has this been my normal?

"I believe in you," he says. I look around me. These people aren't trying to make anything hard for me. I'm making this hard for myself.

"If I'm ridiculed for being in this thing, I'm suing you," I whisper. Peeta just laughs. I turn, determination flowing through my veins. After all, my father didn't teach me to take flight. He taught me to fight back. I let Annie reapply my lipstick and march in front of the camera.

"And here I was thinking the girl on fire had been quenched." Finnick laughs as he comes to stand beside me. I shoot him a look and he just laughs harder.

 

find me on tumblr at writingforhugs :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: this is the first of three Peeta POV chapters. They aren't in any chronological order, but they're just giving a little insight to what's going on in that blond head of his. Enjoy! Thank you, as always, to loueze for betaing :)

_Today is going to be a good day._

The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I am about to officially start work on my newest project. I'm still surprised at how quickly I got someone to volunteer to model for me. Johanna was the one who put the ad in the paper, claiming it would draw more attention than a flier or something online, but I just thought it sounded seedy, like I'm some creep just wanting to take pictures of random girls. I'm not, I just want a normal human being who will help me make my vision turn into reality. That sounds overly cheesy, but it's true. I just hope this girl works out. She sounded nice in her emails.

Jo and I have been organizing this gig for over two months. She's determined who, what and where we need for it to work, and I've been running around in circles in an effort to get some kind of order to the mess this could turn out to be. Having Jo with me will make it one hundred times easier because she'll kick my ass if needed, and calm me down when I begin to worry too much. We're a good team, Jo and I. At a glance we're chalk and cheese, but we work well together.

I realise how nervous I am on the ride up to Twelve. My fingers aren't able to stay still. I drum them on the case of my camera, run them through my hair, and crack my knuckles again and again. The model is going to think I'm a nutcase by the time she gets here if I don't cool it.

I spend the next hour setting up backdrops, lighting, and lenses, waiting for Johanna to arrive.

"Baker boy!" she calls, her heels clacking against the hardwood floors. "I got you a coffee!" She glides into the room in platforms that look about ready to snap her ankles and passes me the coffee, before dumping her bag and bumping her hip against mine, causing me to almost drop the hot drink in my hands.

"Excited to take photos of some naked chick?" she asks, arching an eyebrow.

"Don't say it like that," I say, frowning at her. "Besides, it's going to be a little while before that happens. We need some test shots first. We need to establish whether we will actually be able to work with her."

"But you're still excited right?" she asks, like a dog at a bone. Jo has been encouraging me to get back into the dating pool for a while now. I sigh and refuse to answer. I'm excited about this project, but not in the suggestive way Jo is hinting at. The nerves are too strong for that to even be a possibility. Besides, it would be unprofessional. I just hope for the love of God Jo doesn't decide to make any inappropriate jokes, and that if she does, the model will at least find it funny. This industry is a monster to tackle. One wrong move could catapult me backwards and under the scrutiny and laughter of my Mom. This needs to be successful.

Admittedly, I have had more success than I expected in my short career. I mean, I'm twenty four and the proud winner of multiple awards. My work has sold for stupid amounts (sometimes I don't know who's stupid; the buyers or myself, for not thinking of this sooner) that have meant I've been able to continue in the field of work that I love, live well, travel extensively and donate to amazing charities. If that's something I can keep doing for years to come, I'll be content. As long as I'm able to make a difference in someone's life somehow, I'll do this 'till the day I die. I'm lucky to have so much. There's only one thing missing… but I quickly shut those thoughts down.

There's a rustling, and I turn to find Jo tucking in to something flaky and greasy and definitely not made by me.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I ask her. She looks up and smiles, holding the pastry in the air.

"About to make love to this beautiful piece of pastry," she says, gazing at the pastry. I roll my eyes. Johanna will always find a way to add sexual innuendos into normal conversations. Sometimes, like now, they aren't even innuendos. There have been multiple times during meetings with big industry figures when she's said something knowing I'll choke on my water. If I didn't love her so much, I'd get a restraining order.

I scowl at her and the offending pastry. "I didn't make it. You know how I feel about that kind of thing. Get it off my property."

"In your dreams, Mellark," she snorts. "You can't kick me out."

The pastry does smell delicious though, but I'm not about to say that out loud. It fills the room and even the kitchen with a buttery aroma. That's a not a bad thing. Everyone likes the smell of baked goods. There's a tentative knock at the door and Jo leaps up and walks down the corridor to the foyer to invite the person in. I hear her talking to someone as they move towards the main room of the studio.

"Yo, baker boy!" she suddenly shouts, loud as ever. "The model's here!"

I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and push my hair back from my face. A sweaty handshake and messy hair isn't the way I'm looking to go.

"There's normally more than two people here. Annie – she's the makeup and outfits guru – is usually here but she's busy somewhere else today," Johanna says from the other side of the backdrop I'm hiding behind. "There's other models as well of course." There's a quiet question from the model. "Yeah," Jo replies. "There's a coatrack over there, by the door."

I move around the backdrop. The model is slim from what I can see, with long, dark hair. She stands with her back to me and Jo grins at me, waggling her eyebrows.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting, I hope Johanna was nice to you," I introduce myself. The model whirls around and in the split second our eyes meet I pretty much feel the ground give away beneath me. It's like I've been hit by a truck.

It's Katniss Everdeen. After two years of nothing, the girl I loved is standing close enough for me to reach out and touch her.

It's like I'm looking at ghost. A figment of my imagination come back to life.

I release a breath I didn't even know I was holding. Looking at her I don't know how to feel, my senses are being assaulted by so many emotions. Guilt. Anger. Love? I suck in another deep breath. I guess I'm just glad that she's alive. I've spent so many sleepless nights wondering if something bad happened to her while I just thought she had left me. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't searched her name for months after she left in death records up and down the country, just to be sure. My hands, even after so long, itch to touch her. I ball my hands into fists in an effort to restrain myself.

"Peeta?" she asks, her eyes widening.

"Katniss…"

"You two know each other?" Jo chortles, breaking the spell cast over us. "Oh, this has just got a whole lot more interesting."

Katniss looks horrified, standing there like a rabbit caught in headlights. She looks at me and then at Jo, and then at me, and then at Jo again. I can see the cogs working in her head. I try to form a sentence.

"What are you doing here?" I eventually ask. Real smooth.

"I'm the model," she whispers.

I blink. _Holy shit._ "You are?"

She nods.

"Oh my God," she says. "What are odds of this happening?"

"A million to one, I think," I tell her, my heart pounding as my head runs ahead, faster than I can keep up.

"Wait, how do you two know each other?" Jo speaks up, motioning between the two of us with her coffee.

"Jo, this is _Katniss_ ," I say slowly, raising my eyebrows. She narrows her eyes at me and scoffs.

"I know, dumbass."

"As in _Everdeen_ ," I emphasise, shooting her a look. She knows who Katniss is, even if she's never met her. Hell, I think she knows more about my mysterious ex-girlfriend than I do some days.

"Oh! Oh… Wow," she says with a short laugh. Katniss' cheeks redden. "Well, I'll leave you two to it," she escapes the room, leaving Katniss and I stranded in the middle, staring at each other.

"You're the photographer?" she asks, sounding lost. "Why didn't I figure that out sooner?"

"You're the model?" I retort. She scowls.

"Is that going to be a problem?" she says, immediately on the defensive. I hastily shake my head. It feels so good to be in the same room as her again.

"No, of course not. I just… I wasn't expecting it to be you, that's all."

"Talk about it," she offers. I smile. She fidgets.

She's beautiful. Thinner, but still beautiful. Her hair shines in the sunlight streaming through the warehouse windows and her eyes are still like daggers pinning me in place. I can't look away from her. I was pretty sure I'd never see her again, and now she's standing three meters away. Has she been in town this entire time? If so, how come I've never bumped into her? I should've seen her at college. Perhaps she left school. Where is she living? Where has she been working? Why did she answer an ad and offer to be photographed, especially naked?

I have so many questions that I have to bite down on my tongue to stop them from pouring out. Questions about now, and even more about then. It makes me feel physically sick. The answers are so close.

_Why did you leave?_

_Why didn't you tell me you were okay?_

_Why didn't you make me fight back?_

And most importantly: _where do we go from here?_

I swallow tightly. We fall into silence, and I duck my head slightly, and I can feel her eyes on me even though I'm not looking directly at her. I have no idea what to say or do, let alone think. Just having her in the same room as myself after so long makes my head spin. I can't organise my thoughts logically. She's thrown me off so completely, and I can't even hate her for it. The emotions that have been smouldering deep inside of me have been awakened. Fuel has been thrown on them and now it's just an uncontrollable inferno eating me up from the inside.

I need to maintain control of the situation. This could just be a professional thing. She works for me, I pay her at the end of the day, and then we part. That would be that. No need to get messy emotions involved, not when we both entered this assuming it to be nothing but work, not an awkward reunion between lovers. Strictly professional, Peeta, I remind myself. She didn't come here to be smothered by her boyfriend.

"Okay, wow. Let me just get my head around this," I begin, gesturing for her to take a seat while I grab a stool. I exhale, running my hand through my hair. "You saw an advert for modelling, we unknowingly emailed each other, and you even agreed to model nude?" I ask, trying to stop the incredulity permeating my tone.

She blinks. "Yeah."

"Why? I don't mean this offensively, but you never seemed like someone to model in the first place, never mind naked. You're too pure."

"I need the money to be honest," she says quietly, looking ashamed for a second, her eyes darting around, before she continues. "Besides, it isn't like you never took pictures of me or painted me when I was naked in the past."

Heat fills my blood and my cheeks redden at her bold words, and Katniss blushes too when Johanna helpfully shouts in from the kitchen, laughing her head off.

"Mellark you _dog_!" she cackles.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have said that in front of your girlfriend," Katniss apologises, twisting her fingers together, and the idea of Jo and I ever being more than friends is so stupid that I can't help but laugh.

"Oh, Jo isn't my girlfriend. Far from it. We actually hate each other."

Katniss raises an eyebrow. "That sounds like a good relationship to have."

"Sometimes I don't think it is," I tell her, because most days Jo has the ability to drive me up the wall and still get away with it.

"Why are you looking for models?" Katniss asks, smoothly changing to subject back to something more professional. She's obviously uncomfortable talking too much about relationships, and probably regrets bringing up those paintings.

"I take photos for various magazines and fashion websites when I'm asked to," I explain. "It's extra money. And I'm also trying to expand my portfolio outside of paintings."

"And why are you asking for nude models?"

"I'm focusing on the human form for my new project. It's going to be in my next exhibition."

She narrows her eyes. "So pictures of me are going to be stared at by strangers?"

"Paintings of you have been stared at by strangers already. What's the difference?"

"There's a big difference between paintings and photographs."

I press my lips together, widening my eyes slightly. "You're the one who was willing to come to a stranger's studio and strip off."

"Hey, don't make this sound sordid," she fires back, her grey eyes flashing.

"How did you know whether I was actually going to be an axe-wielding murderer?" I retort.

"Why are murderers always wielding axes?" She scoffs. "I can think of a thousand different weapons that would be much more affective at murder."

"So you still have a sense of humour," I say softly, smiling at her, glad that at least one thing hasn't changed. She nods, frowning slightly, and I lick my lips nervously before speaking. "How have you been?" I ask, and she blushes again.

"What time frame are you looking for?"

"The last two years."

"Well, I've got a shitty apartment with too much rent to pay and a disgusting landlord and I work at a diner earning five dollars an hour, but other than that, I'm living the good ol' American Dream."

My eyes widen, but there's a tiny vindictive part of me that's almost glad that she's suffered a little after disappearing like she did. "I'm sorry, I guess," I say, and for a split second she looks offended.

"How about you?" She asks. "You're obviously doing better than I am."

"I'm doing alright," I shrug, reaching a hand back and rubbing the back of my neck. That's really an understatement. I've been doing more than alright, but boasting isn't needed, not now. "I got my scholarship and everything's been going pretty well. I bought this studio about a year ago. It's fun having my own creative space, and it's great because it means I don't have to set up shoots in a kitchen or a bedroom. The studio back home was too small for anything other than painting, really."

"You still live in our apartment?"

"Yeah…" I say, drawing out the sound, suddenly hyper-aware of how weird the fact that I haven't moved on must seem to her. "D... Does that bother you?"

"No."

"I just, never moved… My art took off and… the apartment is sort of perfect," I amend. "It's not too far from the studio or museums… so I didn't think about finding a new place."

"This studio is pretty fancy," she tells me, uncrossing and crossing her long, toned legs. I can't help it when my eyes dart down to follow the movement.

"It's alright," I say nonchalantly."

"Can you show me around?" she asks, and I mask my surprise with a smile.

"There isn't much to see," I say, and she just shrugs. I direct her around the studio, through the bathroom and kitchen, to the bedroom and the stairwell leading to the roof.

"Although there's other studios in this building, I'm the only one who really uses it for anything," I say, and offer her a drink when we migrate back into the kitchen.."

Trying (and mostly failing) to stay on the subject of the job, I show her some of the pieces I've done, to help her get an idea of scope. She leans in close to me as I flip through the pages, so close I can smell her shampoo, feel warmth radiating off her. It's intoxicating, and I can't help but stare down at her, watching her gazing at the artwork in my hands.

"All of these are amazing," she murmurs, looking up, flinching backwards when she sees how close our faces are. She quickly looks away, and my heart aches. I need to give her space. She doesn't want to be this close to me, and staring at her like I was is just going to make her uncomfortable, and more likely to flee.

"Right, I think we should get started with some test photos," I say, closing the book. She steps away from me, not meeting my eyes. "Annie is our resident makeup and clothing artist, but today we've got Jo instead." On cue, Johanna appears, pulling Katniss towards a chair and grabbing a makeup brush. Katniss looks afraid for a second, glancing from Johanna to the brush and back again as if she's wielding a knife and not a brush.

"Play nice, Jo. Remember not everyone suits ten pounds of black eye shadow," I warn, and she shoves her middle finger in my face as I back away playfully. 

"Go play with some cameras and lights, baker boy," she retorts, and I laugh, disappearing around the corner. As soon as I'm hidden, I squeeze my eyes shut, letting out a shaky breath and trying not to scream. The next few hours are going to be absolute torture. Sure enough, I can't keep my eyes off Katniss as she swaps through various outfits in front of the camera, looking so natural despite how nervous she seems. I try to keep my gaze away, to see her as a professional, to see her as a model only, but I can't help it. She looks amazing in each outfit, and looking at her through the viewfinder allows me to take her in without straight up gawking at her. She's fire personified, and I have a feeling I'm going to be burned even more than I already am if I'm not careful.

The camera loves her and it shows through more and more as more photos are taken, her unease fading slowly until confidence is seeping out of her pores. She has a bounce in her step and her eyes are bright, and it's more than I could've asked for. Upon seeing that I was the photographer, she could've left. I would have understood if she didn't want to work with me, if she didn't want to pour salt on her wounds. She's probably got a boyfriend, the voice in my head helpfully reminds me. She's recovered, just like you should. I try to ignore it. She didn't even mention a boyfriend, but then again, why would she? She's likely moved on with some tall, dark, and handsome guy who doesn't ignore her and block her out. I'm just a ghost from her past now, and I'm not going to haunt her.

The hours pass faster than I thought they would, and I'm both saddened and relieved when she leaves, clutching her cheque tightly in both hands. As soon as the door closes, I rest my forehead against the frosted glass, closing my eyes and gripping the doorknob so hard it's on the verge of being ripped off. The studio is silent. It's like she was never here.

"Peeta?" Johanna's voice fractures the silence, and I take a deep breath, opening my eyes as everything swims back into focus. 

"I'm here, Jo," I call back, pushing away from the door and walking back into the studio space. My partner in crime is sat at the table the laptop hooked up to the camera is sat on, and looks up at me in concern when I enter the room, her expression hard and unforgiving despite her eyes showing the worry she feels underneath.

"You know what I'm going to say to you," she starts, and I sigh, turning and heading for the kitchen.

"I don't want to talk about it," I tell her, disappearing through the doorway. She comes clattering after me, agile in her massive heels but not at all silent.

"The fuck you don't," she barks, furrowing her brow, folding her arms over her chest..

"Jo-"

"No, Peeta," she cuts me off, and I lean against the countertop, waiting for her lecture. "You aren't going to hide from this. You're going to sit down and talk to me and fucking _listen_ to me when I tell you that I only want the best for you. I'm not going to let you slip back into the mess you used to be. You've worked way too hard to go back there and you know it."

"What do you propose I do then?" I ask, facing her.

"You really want the truth?"

"Yes."

"I think you need to think long and hard about whether or not keeping Katniss on is a good idea. From what you've told me about her, I have my doubts about how healthy this is going to be for you, and you're putting yourself before your work," she pauses, waiting for the message to sink in. "You promised me that you were going to put your health first. Remember?"

"Yes I fucking remember," I snap, gripping the countertop tightly.

"Well I don't think you do!"

"Of course I remember!" 

"Do you?" she asks, her nostrils flaring. "Do you remember, Peeta? Do you know what it was like to find you passed out on the fucking floor? Do you know how fucking scary it is to see you getting your stomach pumped?"

"I don't need to be reminded," I growl. "I remember it all, Johanna. And it has nothing to do with Katniss. It's different now. This is strictly business."

"Bullshit. I'll believe that the day hell freezes over."

"Strictly business, Jo."

"But it's not going to stay 'strictly business', is it?" she says, creating quotation marks in the air as she speaks. "Anyone with half a brain can see that. You're going to get way over your head. I can see it already."

"I'm not going to get way over my head. I'll be fine."

"So you're going to allow her stay here? To be here for hours while you take photos of her?" she steps closer, narrowing her eyes. "To be _naked_ in front of you?"

"Jesus Christ, Johanna," I say, moving away from her.

"You can't even handle it being talked about!"

"Yes I can!"

"Peeta, just trust me when I say I think this could end up becoming complicated. I don't want you getting hurt again, which is what happened the last time she was in your life. She's trouble, and I know that this isn't going to be any other business transaction."

"Tell me what I should do then," I say. "Because I didn't think I'd ever see her again, especially not now."

"I can't tell you what to do. All I can do is give you advice."

"Give it to me then."

"Based on everything that I know about what happened between you, I don't think you can be professional. This is going to hurt you. This is going to hurt both of you," she leans against the island, staring me down, though her tone is softer. "Honestly, I think you should cut her loose, before it becomes too much for you."

"I'm not a child, Jo. I can decide for myself if I'm getting in too deep."

"No you can't! You're blind when it comes to that girl! I've never even met her before today and I can see what you're like around her."

"I'm not blind, either."

"Stop denying everything I say."

"She's perfect for the project."

"Says who? Says _you_? The guy who lost his damn mind over this girl?"

I feel my neck flushing as my head spins. She's right, but I remain indignant. "I didn't lose my mind."

"Perhaps not your mind but she took something with her, and it's still missing."

"Look," I say, keeping my tone even despite the turmoil in my blood. "I am fully capable of being professional. She's perfect for the project."

"Peeta, please," Jo pleads. "Think about what you're doing here. Take her out of the equation, and you won't have a reaction. That's basic chemistry."

"What does chemistry have to do with any of this?"

"Don't change the subject. You know what I'm talking about," she says, and I pinch the bridge of my nose, completely overwhelmed. This side of Johanna, the intense, emotion-fuelled side, is the one I only really see in full force like this when I'm a) drunk or b) hungover. In normal circumstances I'll see glimpses of it, but she's got a hard outer shell that doesn't let much through. Seeing her actually speaking like this, in a way that is all about protecting people who are important to her, is startling when completely sober.

"All I'm saying is that you won't be able to keep this professional, no matter what you say," she insists. "I may not have actually met the infamous Katniss Everdeen until today, but I can see the effect she has on you. I've been friends with you for long enough to see the damage she can cause. I've spent too long trying to help you, Peeta, and I'm not about to let you throw all of that away just because she'd suddenly popped up out of obscurity."

"I'm keeping her on the project," I say with finality, and Jo throws her hands up, looking to the ceiling. "I know you mean well, Jo, but I'm going to be fine."

"You're playing with fire, Peeta," she warns me, echoing my own thoughts. I look away, squeezing my eyes shut again, and it's like I can smell whisky in the air, hear the clink of my mother's glasses as she poured herself another drink. The room sways. I inhale slowly, trying to clear my head of the fog that pollutes it, screwing my hands into fists in an effort to stop them shaking.

"Hey, you alright?" Jo asks, snapping me out of it for a split-second with how quickly she's gone from angry to concerned.

"I need a drink," I groan, turning and reaching for the bottle of wine I know is sat in one of the kitchen cabinets.

"Oh no you don't!" she exclaims, slamming her hand down on the cabinet door before I can pry it open. "You aren't drinking anything, Peeta. Not now. Not when you're like this."

"It'll help me think," I say weakly, and she gives me a withering look so strong I can feel myself wilting.

"Look at what's she's doing to you already," she tells me. "And tell me you're going to be able to stay professional through all this."

"Johanna-"

"Because trust me, you won't. One of you is going to break."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Can you believe that we're already on chapter four?! As always, thank you to loueze, and to everyone who reads this thing every week :)

Chapter Four

I haven't been back to Twelve for nine days. It's the longest I've spent with a gap in-between shoots and even though I know I'm getting ahead of myself, I can't help but feel anxious. Multiple times I've had to remind myself that I've only been in two shoots so far and that I'm just overreacting. Worrying the way I have been is going to make me ill. If I'm needed, I'll be contacted. It's as simple as that.

Working at the diner now seems even more depressing than it used to be. For now, I don't need to work ten hour shifts every day because I've earned one thousand dollars from ten hours of work at the studio. It's crazy, but I'm not complaining. Looking at my bank account makes me relax a little knowing that I'm not going to have to stretch to get by this month but I can't help but wonder how Peeta is able to pay me this much. Finnick must get paid even more. I suppose that _Capitol Fashion_ paid for it, but he must have had some input, right?

Fighting back another yawn and smiling at a customer as I pour them a cup of coffee, I make my rounds around the diner, collecting used dishes and tips. Since I'm not in dire need of tips right now, I've been quietly sliding them into Leevy's jar under the counter. I know she needs them more than I do. We're alike, me and Leevy. We both value our pride and hate taking hand outs.

Leevy, however, has a toddler son to look after. She's staggered into work many times exhausted from sleepless nights. Not to mention the fact that I know she regularly skips meals so little Dylan can eat. I'm normally the one who forces her to eat a pastry, no matter how dry they are, once the owner's back is turned. I empty the five dollar bill and a handful of dimes into her jar and get back to work. If she found out, she'd outright refuse to take the money, even though deep down she would appreciate the extra cash.

"I haven't seen you around lately," she says, retying her hair into a ponytail. I slide the empty coffee jug into the machine to refill it. "What're you doing that's better than this place?"

I nudge her arm and she snorts. "I've found a… another job that pays well for what I'm actually doing."

"Well that sounds suspicious," she raises an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"You know that ad I talked to you about? Ages ago?"

"The modelling one?!" Leevy exclaims, her eyes widening. "You went for it?!"

"Uh, yeah," I say, embarrassed. "It isn't much. I've only done two shoots, and one of them was just a test shoot, so I guess I've only done one..."

"Hey, don't play this down. This could be a really good thing for you, Katniss!" she scolds, refilling the napkin box. "It sure beats working here."

 

We don't get a chance to really talk again until our lunch break, but as soon as we've sat down to eat, Leevy grills me.

"Where's the studio?"

"Just a little way into the city."

"What's it like modelling?"

"Easy and difficult at the same time. I didn't realise that I would need to convey so much with just my eyes." I pick at my sandwich and think about how easily Finnick can show every emotion through his sea-green orbs. He was born to be a model, or even an actor. Or just to be looked at.

I answer my co-worker's questions diligently as our break draws to a close, but Leevy is perceptive - she picks up pretty quickly that something is bugging me.

"What's bad about the job then? I mean, you're earning loads for standing there and looking flawless, but what's the downside?" she studies me carefully as she waits for my reply.

"It's nothing," I say, shrugging my shoulders and swirling the last of my coffee around in the bottom of the cup. Leevy gives me a knowing look.

"Come on. What is it?" she says, leaning over the table. "I can tell something is bugging you."

"I just- one of the people there. The photographer is…"

"Oh God, he isn't a creep is he?" she interjects.

"No! No, he's not a creep at all." I find myself jumping to Peeta's defence. I clear my throat and try to stop the colour rising in my cheeks. "He's amazing, actually. He is so talented, and takes such amazing photos and is just an all-round good guy -"

"Oh my God," Leevy gasps, a smile rolling over her face. "You like him, don't you! Tell me more!"

"I don't like him." I huff.

"Please, Katniss. You're all red. Do you have his number?"

"Uh…"

"That's a yes. Do you think he likes you too?" she sighs into her bagel. "That's so romantic! It's like something from a-"

"He's my ex-boyfriend." I force the words out, burying my face into my hands once I've said it. Leevy trails off.

"Okay. Well, that changes everything."

I snort. "Tell me about it." Now Leevy just looks concerned for me.

"How long has he been your ex?" she asks quietly.

"Two years," I sigh, running my hands through my hair. "We broke up over a stupid argument and because I was an asshole. We haven't seen each other or even spoken since then."

"Not even once?" Leevy sounds disbelieving.

"Not even once." I confirm.

"Did you know he was going to be there?"

"No. I wouldn't have gone if I knew it was him. It was just an opportunity for money, but now it's become more complicated than I ever thought it would be."

Leevy gives me a sympathetic smile, tracing her fingertip over the lip of her bottle. "What's it like being around him after all this time?"

"It's… it's nice. Uh, it hasn't been awkward or anything, but he's just like he was when I moved out."

"Has he got a girlfriend?"

"No. He hasn't had one since we broke up."

Our lunch break ends with Leevy promising that there are more questions she wants answered. For the rest of my shift, my thoughts are occupied by Peeta. I know he hasn't been in another relationship since we were together, but that doesn't mean he hasn't slept with someone. A wave of jealously sweeps over me.

I shouldn't feel jealous. Peeta and I are in the past for a reason. I'm temperamental while Peeta is for the most calm and collected. In hindsight, I never appreciated him. I didn't communicate enough and let my emotions build up to a level that I couldn't handle and I took it all out on him when he was only trying to better himself.

I should've understood how important his art was to him. Deep down I knew I was being selfish, but the stronger part of me, the part of me that wanted to throw a tantrum, said things I would spend a thousand lifetimes trying to make up for.

I don't think I'll ever forgive myself. How Peeta feels about it, I have no idea. Bringing it up seems like a bad idea. Unearthing what hadn't been said would cause more grief.

After all this time I find myself wondering about what could have been. What if I had just told him from the very start that I felt ignored? What if we had organised a night when it was just our time instead of tiptoeing around the elephant in the room? What if I had controlled the anger bubbling in my chest and calmed down? I guess we could've still been together. The thought makes my heart ache. The first six months apart from him were agonising. I was struggling to live and left with nothing but the smell of him on the hoodie that I took with me and the memory of his hand in mine, his lips pressed against my skin.

The number of guys I have slept with since that fateful day is still at the grand old total of one. I met him at a bar, let him cajole me with drinks, and by the time we made it back to my place, I was stumbling around and slurring and not really giving a shit. When I woke up the morning after, however, I had bed sheets soiled by a guy I didn't care about and a horrible ache in my chest. I try not to think about it.

 

 

On the way back to my apartment, Leevy's comments have sent me reeling. She thinks I like him. I don't like him. I mean, I like him as a person, but it's pointless investing anything deeper into it now. Johanna laughed when I asked if she and Peeta were together, and Peeta quickly dismissed the idea as well. There is no one I can really ask – except perhaps Annie – about Peeta's relationship status.

And that's when I have a brainwave.

_Facebook._

I hardly ever use the damn site, finding the inane posts my 'friends' make so mind-numbing I actually get pissed at them. I am still friends with Peeta, however, never having been able to make myself unfriend him, as stupid as it sounds. As soon as I arrive at my place, I throw down my bag and race for my laptop, firing it up and spending the next ten minutes trying to remember my password. When I finally do, I race to Peeta's profile. He was last active over a year ago, so I suppose he hates the site as much as I do.

I check his relationship status. _Single._ Sure, it's a year out of date, but that doesn't mean anything yet. I narrow my eyes and scroll down his page. Messages from friends and family, occasional status's, birthday wishes, and then, tagged pictures of him with a bubbly-looking blonde. In the pictures they appear to be at restaurants and clubs, and each one they're hugging or have their arms slung around each others shoulders.

I scowl at the girl in question. _Cashmere Olsen._ I wonder who this Cashmere person is. They don't look romantically involved. I skim through the comments on the photos and a very important detail catches my eye. _They're cousins._

_Cashmere Olsen: Do not hit on my cousin, Clove. I'm warning you ;)_

I lean back in my seat. That's okay. I assume the two of them aren't into incest, so I continue on my stalking spree. But then I come across girl number two.

She's blonde as well, and looks like a fucking supermodel. Long legs, tiny waist, huge breasts that surely aren't natural on a frame like that, and a face that is so symmetrical it makes me want to cry. Her name is Glimmer Javier. Even her name is ridiculous. There are only two pictures of the two of them. The first is of her kissing his cheek, and the second is of them at the beach with a group of other people. I stare at the two photos, fully aware of how weird I'm being, and when my phones buzzes loudly from my bag, I jump and quickly exit the page.

And who has texted me? None other than Peeta Mellark himself.

**Peeta:** _Hey, you doing anything Friday night? :)_

**Katniss:** _No, why?_

**Peeta:** _I was wondering if you'd be able to come round and help me with some photo issues._

I hardly finish reading his text before I'm messaging him back.

**Katniss:** _Sure. What time should I get there?_

**Peeta:** _6 pm?_

**Peeta:** _And don't eat any dinner. I'll make something._

**Katniss:** _Okay. I'll see you at six._

**Peeta:** _Great! See you then :)_

I can't even deny the feeling that rushes through me. Even a few texts between the two of us in the space of five minutes is enough to make my heart sing. Pathetic, really, but I have so little human contact outside of work these days that I'll take what I can get.

Knowing that I have plans – and more importantly, plans with Peeta – makes my anxiety levels immediately shoot up. My leg jiggles up and down as I eat my microwaved dinner a few hours later, and even a hot shower can't unravel the knots in my back. I clean the kitchen and vacuum my entire apartment before bed just to keep myself occupied, and it takes hours for me to finally fall asleep once I admit defeat and go to bed.

 

 

Friday swings around and rushes by and suddenly I'm standing in the elevator at the studios and staring at my reflection. I didn't know what I was supposed to wear this evening, so I've gone with a simple, dark green dress that skims my knees and cinches in around my waist. As I adjust my hair and swipe on more lip balm, I try to convince myself that I'm not dressing up just because of Peeta. Not that this dress is really date material, since the fabric is worn from being washed so many times and I've had to reattach the straps on multiple occasions.

But I hardly ever wear my hair natural. Or wear mascara. Or feel so nervous.

Peeta opens the door with his usual smile and takes my coat for me, inviting me straight into the kitchen. His laptop is open on the island and plays a relaxing playlist and whatever's cooking fills the room with delicious aromas.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asks, gesturing for me to sit at the breakfast bar. "I have wine… and there's probably some Bud somewhere. And I have water on tap as well."

His smile is infectious and I can't help the grin that spread over my face. "Uh, what do you recommend?"

"Well, I picked out the wine specifically for what I'm cooking…"

"I'll have a glass of wine then, please," I say, leaning forward over the counter.

Peeta pops the cork and pours us each some of the wine, before turning his attention back to the oven. I swing my legs back and forth, looking around the room and admiring the paintings hung up around me. I can recognise Peeta's style from a mile away, his free, flowing brushstrokes creating masterpieces. If I was let loose with paints and tried to copy him, it would end up looking like a pre-schooler's piece of work that you don't really like but have to pin to the refrigerator anyway.

"So," I start after a minute or two of silence. "It's weirdly quiet around here. Am I the first to arrive?"

"Oh, no," Peeta says, looking a little flustered as he turns to face me. "It's…uh… it's just you and me this evening."

"Oh!" I say, raising my eyebrows.

"That's okay, isn't it? I just wanted you to go over some stuff. Jo and the crew aren't really necessary," he pauses, looking down at the pot on the stove. "I'm sorry, I should have explained. If this makes you uncomfortable-"

"No, no. It's alright," I assure him, my heart fluttering. "I guess we can all do without Johanna every once in a while."

Peeta laughs, reaching up and opening a cabinet. "That's very true. She's been making me want to pull my hair out the past few days."

"Really? Why?"

"We've been at various meetings over the past few days… nothing interesting. It's mostly planning for exhibitions later in the year, but Jo – she's a nightmare when it comes to travelling," he explains. "Always says I drive too fast and-"

"But you do," I comment, furrowing my brow. That was the one thing that was kind of odd about Peeta. He's such a calm and in-control person except for when it comes to driving. He apparently isn't capable of going normal speeds, instead favouring to race everywhere. "I hated it when you drove us anywhere because we got pulled over so many times."

"I always got us out of it though, didn't I?" he chuckles pointing at me with a wooden spoon.

"You told one cop I was in labour," I deadpan, though inside, my stomach swoops at the way he says "us".

"He believed me though!" Peeta continues to chuckle.

"He was too freaked out at the idea of labour that he didn't even think to check if I was actually pregnant!"

"It was dark."

"We got lucky with a stupid cop."

"Okay, fine," he shakes his head. I take a sip of my wine and use the glass to hide my smile. "Just because I might drive a little erratically-"

" _Might?_ "

"It doesn't mean that Jo is a good passenger. I've never seen so much road rage from someone who isn't even driving."

Our conversation flows easily as Peeta finishes cooking and presents the meal. It's lamb stew, another old favourite of mine that I haven't had in over a year now. My mouth waters as I stare down at the plate of rice and the tureen of stew in-between Peeta and I. He ladles some onto the rice and then clinks his glass against mine.

"I'm glad you said yes to tonight," he says, his voice so soft I almost have to strain to hear.

"You were making dinner. I wasn't going to pass up on that kind of opportunity," I shrug, taking a sip of my drink and picking up my fork.

"That was the only reason you're here?" Peeta asks, looking offended. "I'm hurt."

"Oh, shut up," I say, rolling my eyes. The stew is delicious and I polish off a second portion unashamedly. It sure beats the microwaved and takeout meals I pretty much live on. Dessert is even more astounding; a small, chocolate sponge pudding with a molten sauce that oozes out onto the plate when I cut it open.

Although I wasn't expecting tonight to just be Peeta and myself, I'm actually kind of glad that we don't have anyone else with us. I guess whatever photo issues he called me over to deal with aren't that important, because the hours quickly pass. We keep steady conversation, mostly talking about what we've been doing in the last two years even though Peeta's story is much more interesting than mine. He's travelled while I've stayed put. The jealousy that flows through me as he recalls his trips to Europe and Asia is strong. I loved to travel. I caught the bug during my gap year after high school and when Peeta and I went to Italy and Norway as a couple, yet now I've stayed within a fifty-mile radius while he's been living it up all around the world.

"I have pictures – and paintings, obviously – from when I was in Thailand," he says, standing up. "Come and have a look."

I follow him through the studio and into an adjoining room that appears to be mainly storage. There are boxes laid about and canvas stack up against the wall, back to back. Peeta shows me an album of photos printed on large pieces of glossy paper as well as paintings. I'm simply in awe, staring at the vibrant sunsets and endless forests and beautiful beaches that look so real I feel as if I could step into the picture and find myself in Thailand.

He shows me several other paintings and the framed prints of his and Johanna's photography, and each time I'm more and more astounded. "These are amazing, Peeta," I praise, holding a canvas carefully, terrified of spilling wine on it and ruining his work. He smiles, standing just beside me. "You're so talented."

"I guess art isn't just splashing paint on a canvas after all," he murmurs. I stiffen, biting my lip. He's never brought up our breakup. I don't know if I'm ready to discuss it. He clears his throat, the sound rough in the silence of the room. "Let me take your class and put some of the dishes away," he says when I don't say anything in return. "I'll be back in a minute."

He takes my glass and leaves without meeting my eyes. As soon as he's gone, I slap my forehead with my palm. I'm such an idiot. I know that my excuses now mean nothing, but everything I said that night was in the heat of the moment and I'm forever regretful that I allowed my fiery temper to end something so good. That night, we never actually said the words that ended out relationship, at least not officially, but we didn't speak for the rest of the night. Peeta just stayed locked away and I never even tried to apologise. I just packed up and left, leaving behind a gaping wound in desperate need of some stitches.

From the kitchen I hear the clank of dishes being loaded into the dishwasher. I bite my lip, standing in the centre of the room surrounded by boxes and stacks of artwork that I might never have seen before. Heaven knows how much Peeta has in storage if it isn't hung up in a gallery somewhere. I circle around, looking at more of the canvases leant against the wall, working my way around slowly and wondering what stories these paintings hold.

In the corner there are some canvas covered in a sheet. It's one of very few that are covered which spikes my interest so I crouch down and pull the sheet away, turning the first canvas so it faces me. It takes barely a millisecond for me to recognise it. I blink, staring at the image, heat building in my chest. They're the paintings Peeta did a few years ago, when we were together. The ones that originated from photographs. The ones of us having sex that I loved but was too embarrassed to have hung up in our apartment where prying eyes might see.

"Sorry about that, I just wanted to clean up a little," Peeta says, re-entering the room. I don't move to face him, just staring down at the pictures. I hear his footsteps behind me get closer and then stumble to a stop. "Oh, uh… you found them," he mumbles, the embarrassment clear in his voice. I crane my neck and look at him.

"Why do you still have these?" I whisper. He scratches the back of his head, opening and losing his mouth a few times, unsure of what to say. "I assumed you would've burned them or something."

"Yeah, well…" he trails off awkwardly. "It's not meant to be creepy or anything. I just… I just…" he sighs, unable to get his words out. I turn back to the paintings.

Looking at them again feels kind of weird. Like the feeling I got from taking snapshots of Peeta's orgasm all that time ago, staring down at his interpretation of such a private moment makes me feel all kind of emotions. The curve of his neck against the pillow, the way his lips are parted. The way my eyes seem to be the focus of the second picture, the soft colours he used to create the rest of the intimate image isolating the silvery spheres.

"I kept them because I like them," he finally says, sounding embarrassed. I smile sadly, even though he can't see my face, a flush blooming over my cheeks. He clears his throat, stepping a little closer to me. How strange is this? I never thought I'd see these paintings again. Fear momentarily spikes in my chest.

"Have you shown them to anyone?" I ask.

"Never."

"Why did you paint them in the first place?"

"You know the answer to that," Peeta replies, clearing his throat. "It's always good for an artist to paint their fears and themselves in a vulnerable position… It's freeing."

I gently place the canvas back in their stack and drape the sheet over them once again. Peeta shoves his hands in his pockets and smiles at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks apologetic, but I'm the one who's in the wrong.

"I'm sorry for what I said a minute ago," he breathes. "About art being paint splashed on a canvas. That was a dick move."

I crack my knuckles nervously. "You have nothing to say sorry for. I- I'm sorry for being a bitch when you were working for your scholarship."

"Katniss-"

"I should've understood how important it was to you. I mean, I _did_ understand, but I was being selfish and I missed your company and what I said – about you being like your mother – was completely out of line," I can't look at him anymore, so stare at my shoes instead. "I didn't mean it. I really am sorry, Peeta. And you're nothing like her. Not in the slightest."

Unlike when I yelled at him two years ago, I don't feel the fight flow out of me once I've finished speaking. Instead, all I feel is some of the weight I've been carrying melt away. Peeta steps closer to me and I look up just in time for him to pull me into a hug. My entire body goes rigid. He's hugging me. And I'm just standing here. I take a deep breath and slowly bring my arms up around him, burying my face in his shoulder and inhaling his familiar scent. Immediately I feel calmer. In his embrace my muscles unwind and my heart rate increases. My hands crease his shirt and I squeeze my eyes shut. It feels so good to be touched by him like this. It feels like returning home after a long vacation and finding everything is how you left it.

"It's okay," he whispers into my ear. Goosebumps prickle my skin as his breath hits my ear. "I was being a jerk by not being a good boyfriend."

"I saw articles about your exhibition. It was really, really good," I tell him. "You deserved that scholarship."

"Thank you," he says, pulling away. I stare at him. He stares at me. "I have something for you, actually." He whirls around and begins to root around, searching for a good minute or two before presenting me with a canvas. "Remember this?"

It's the lake. My father took me to it as a child and I spent many summers there swimming, fishing, and camping. When Mom died Peeta helped me organise all the old photos and I came across a whole packet of them from the lake. We visited a few weeks later to spread Mom's ashes like I did with my father's so long ago, and Peeta painted me the sunset that spilled over the surface of the water as a gift. I'd forgotten about it. In my haste to leave after we broke up I never thought to take it with me, but looking at it now makes me emotional.

"Of course I remember," I whisper, as tears begin to well in my eyes. "How could I not?"

"Do you want it back?"

"What- oh, no. It's yours. You made it."

"Yeah, for you," Peeta says softly. "All it's doing here is gathering dust. Take it. It'd be better hung up and appreciated rather than stuck in storage."

"Are you sure?"

"If you don't want it-"

"No, I do!" I insist, tracing the bumps of the paint on the canvas. "I do. I want it."

It's just gone nine thirty and I have work in the morning, so I help Peeta dry the dishes and put them back in their respective cupboards before gathering my coat and bag with the painting under my arm. He rides down in the elevator with me and pulls faces at me in the mirrored wall of the small space as we descend. I have to bite the inside of my cheeks to stop myself from laughing out loud. He used to do stupid stuff like that to make me laugh all the time, especially when he knew I was upset about something. I guess he remembers how much the lake meant to me. When we reach the lobby, I stare out of the window in dismay at the rain that falls in sheets outside. I didn't bring an umbrella, and my coat doesn't have a hood, and I took the bus instead the car. The painting is going to get ruined.

"You can't walk home in that," Peeta says, peering through the glass into the street. "Wait here and I'll go grab my keys."

"But you've had something to drink," I say. "You can't drive."

"I had my last drink an hour ago. It was a glass of water," he retorts. "I'm driving you."

My protests fall on deaf ears since he's already in the elevator. I sigh and wait for him, scuffing the toe of my shoe against the shiny tiles underfoot. The elevator dings and Peeta steps out with one of those huge golfing umbrellas that he pushes open once he reaches the door. I say nothing, but smile at his superstitious belief about not opening umbrellas indoors. He holds the umbrella over me as I get in the car and places the painting securely in the back seat before joining me. His car is nice. Nicer than any car I could even hope to afford, with a completely black interior that looks like it has just rolled out of the factory. I relax into the seat as he presses a few buttons on the dashboard and pulls out into the road.

The radio plays quietly in the background, the rain providing a calming backdrop to the sound. Peeta hums along as we drive, and I stare out of the window, watching as lightning flashes across the sky, momentarily illuminating the rolling, purple clouds up above. Goosebumps prickle over my skin, and I shrink back into the seat.

"Still hate storms, huh?" he glances over at me while stopped at a red light. I grimace.

"Always have, always will."

"Don't you think they're kind of beautiful?" he asks, peering out over the wheel. "Not really," I say, glancing back at him, watching the lights outside skittering over his face. "I mean, yeah, they're alright to look at, but its a thousand billion volts of electricity or something literally shooting out of the sky towards you."

"I think that's a bit of an exaggeration."

"Not really," I say. He laughs and shakes his head. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing-" he shrugs. "It's just that, well, you've hardly changed since the last time I knew you. I mean, we didn't speak for two years and then suddenly we're working together. It's kind of reassuring that some things don't change."

"Gee, thanks," I mutter.

"Hey, I didn't mean it like that," he explains. "I meant that my life has been a bit of a whirlwind. Sometimes I'd sit alone in my apartment and just wish for something constant…" he trails off, drumming his hands on the wheel. "It's stupid. Sorry."

I bite my lip. "That isn't stupid, Peeta. Really. I know what you mean."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. You've had a better time than I have. I mean, come on. You have a scholarship. A successful career. I'm a waitress at a shitty diner with no accomplishments in life."

"Stop putting yourself down," Peeta says softly. "Besides, you're a model now. A model in _Capitol Fashion_ no less."

I smile and stare ahead down the street, directing Peeta where to go before continuing our conversation. "I'm only in Capitol Fashion because of you," I say, fiddling with the strap of my bag. "How'd you even convince them to take me in the first place?"

"I gave them the photos from the test shoot. And some from a few years ago. They wanted to use someone else at first but I convinced him that you'd be a good choice."

"Oh." I wonder briefly what photos of me he still has from a few years ago. Why he would have kept any of them?

"I should've asked you first. Before I handed over the photos," he apologises sheepishly.

"If you had asked me I probably would've said no, though, so you were doing me a favour," I shrug nonchalantly. Peeta must have put a considerable amount on the line for me. I have a feeling I'll be forever in his debt at this rate. "Thank you," I tell him, placing a tentative hand on his forearm. "I'm glad you were the photographer."

"Perhaps its fate," Peeta says with a small smile as he stops outside my apartment and parks. I say nothing in return, though his comment affects me in a way I didn't expect.

Prim and my father were strong believers in fate. That everything happened for a reason and that trying to stop the natural course of things would do nothing but bring you grief. I was one of those people, always trying to change things. So far fate has done nothing positive for me. My parents and sister are dead, I'm single, and I work at below minimum wage. Maybe Peeta is right. Maybe this is fate, and this is the point where everything starts looking up for me. As per usual, I can't help but read into his words. Does he mean that us meeting is fate? And if he does, what does he mean by that? Of course I was shocked at first to discover that my ex was the creator of the advert, but I honestly am glad that it's him, and for more reasons than the obvious. Is this a second chance? Or a way for me to make peace with Peeta, and apologise for everything I did wrong the first time round?

I climb out of the car and rush to unlock the door of my apartment building so Peeta can run in with the painting. I lead him towards the elevator, watching him look around the run down building. Even his workplace is nicer than where I live. He stares at the mold creeping over the corners of the elevator.

"You should take that up with the landlord," he says. "Surely that isn't legal?"

"There's a lot of things that aren't legal in this place," I reply dryly. "You kind of get used to it."

Peeta nods, but I can tell that he feels a little uncomfortable. His discomfort increases when we step into the corridor.

"W-what is that smell?" he asks as we pass apartment number D6.

"Probably marijuana," I say. "It's fine."

We continue down the corridor and reach my apartment. I unlock the door, jiggle the handle, and push it open, beckoning Peeta inside and locking the door behind him. I dump my stuff on my lumpy couch and go to the kitchen to switch on more lights. "Well, this is my place," I say, spreading my arms in a weak welcome.

"It's not bad," Peeta says, looking around. "You must get a lot of light in here." I raise my eyebrows at this. It's admirable that he's trying to make this place sound nice, really.

"I get a nice view of sunrise and sunset most days," I say, sarcasm edging my words.

He looks down at the painting in his hands. "Where should I put this?"

"I'll take it," I say, walking forward and taking it from him. "I'll be right back. Sit down or something."

I turn and dart down the hallway leading towards my bedroom and the bathroom, careful not to knock the canvas against the walls. I prop it up against the wall just beside my bed and quickly dress in more casual clothing. My feet are hurting from my shoes, and getting out of them and into a pair of fluffy socks feels amazing.

"I don't know how long you want to stay," I say as I re-enter the living space, pushing the sleeves of my sweater over my elbows. Peeta is standing by the window with his hands in his pockets, looking out over the neighbourhood. "I wouldn't leave your car unattended for too long, but I have stuff to drink. If you want something, that is."

"I'm okay. I, uh, I've still got to lock up at the studio so I can't be long."

"Alright," I murmur, pouring myself a glass of water and walking over to join him at the window. For a few minutes we're quiet. I stare out into the darkness. It isn't exactly a fantastic view, especially at night, so I don't know what Peeta finds so fascinating.

"That's my hoodie," he interrupts my thoughts. I choke on my water and look up at him.

"What?"

"It was my favourite jacket… from the wrestling team," he says with a smile, his eyes brightening. I look down and feel my face come alight. "I wondered where that had gone."

"Oh, I, uh…" I take another sip of water in order to occupy my mouth while my brain figures out what to say. "It's been in my wardrobe for ages. It's soft."

"The colour suits you. Not many people can-"

"-pull off orange, but you just look radiant," I finish for him, rolling my eyes a little. He nods, chuckling.

"I've said that before, haven't I?"

"Just once or twice," I say, focusing on the glass in my hands. At least he didn't freak out and think it was weird. I feel like a weirdo. Who wears their ex's clothes? The urge to kick myself is strong.

"Well, you do. It does suit you," he says, nudging me with his elbow. I shove him back, embarrassed. "And you looked beautiful in that dress," he persists. "I meant to say it earlier."

"Green's my favourite colour."

"I remember," he murmurs, looking back out of the window, leaving me stunned into silence.

 

 

 

After that, time rushes by so quickly. Before I can gather my bearings, two weeks have passed, and I've spent more time than ever at Twelve. I'm not always the one in front of the camera. Sometimes I come in just for something to do so that I'm not sat in my apartment by myself.

Finally, much earlier than I expected, I pay off Mom's funeral. It's a weight lifted off my shoulders, and I feel like I'm walking on air for days afterwards. As horrible as it sounds, I'm glad that this burden is gone. It feels like I can finally move on with my life without being dragged down by the ghost of my mother. My fear of failure nags at me still, even though I'm making a bank at the studio, and I can't find it in me to quit my waitressing job just yet, even though I hate it. I need something to fall back on if something happens and this whole modelling gig blows back in my face.

One month after the photo shoot with Finnick, Peeta texts me to let me know that the new issue of Capitol Fashion is out. I race for the nearest news agents and search for the magazine, ready to flick through it and find myself sandwiched between the elite on a glossy page. The shopkeeper gives me a strange look when I toss a ten dollar bill at him, tell him to keep the change and rip the plastic packaging off the magazine.

And there I am.

_Fashion of the Future_

The title is huge and in an elegant font, sprawled across the page. And directly beneath is Finnick and I, staring straight at the camera in our ridiculous garments. I can't even find it in me to be embarrassed like I probably should be. All I feel is pride.

It's a six-page spread of photos and blocks of text. And then, right at the bottom on the last page is a paragraph from Peeta.

**CF:** _Peeta, how sure were you that an unknown model could produce such stunning images, especially paired with Finnick Odair?_

**PM:** _I was 100% sure from the very start. Katniss Everdeen is such a natural in front of the camera, and I knew right away that she and Finnick would create some beautiful photos. I'm a firm believer in substance- the photo is what matters, not who's in it. Katniss was brilliant to work with. She'll be making waves in the industry, so watch this space._

I must re-read those five lines about one hundred times before they finally start to sink in. Peeta said that about me in _Capitol Fashion_. I retrieve my phone and ring him.

"Hel-"

"I can't believe you said that about me!" I gush.

"Katniss?"

"In _Capitol Fashion_? I'm looking at it right now and you told them about me!"

I can hear him laughing and scowl.

"You aren't annoyed are you? It's just the truth."

"How can I be annoyed? That's the best thing anyone has ever said about me."

"I hardly think that's-"

"It is true, Peeta," I interrupt him. "So thank you. Thank you for being so nice to me after I was such a bitch to you."

"That was years ago," he says. "It doesn't really matter anymore."

"Yeah, well, thank you," I reply, my smile stretching from ear to ear. "It means a lot to me."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here's chapter five! Thank you loueze, for having as great a mind as I do ;)

For the first time in entirely too long the drive to the diner is one filled with anticipation. Anticipation and hope for what the future holds. Most days I dread coming here; walking through the front door and tying my apron around my waist symbolising the hours I'd never get back.

Today is different. Today I'm handing in my resignation and focusing on myself. I want to go back to college, find a better job closer to the city aside from working with Peeta (which I assume isn't going to be permanent) and figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life instead of staying here.

It's a risk, I know, but I've been so stuck in the same routine for the past two years that I don't remember how it feels to truly be in charge of my own life. The diner has been paying the bills, sure, but it's not making me happy. Working with Peeta has given me a taste of what I could have outside of the daily grind of ten hour shifts at the diner, making barely enough to keep body and soul together. I'll miss Leevy though. I'll even miss some of the regulars who've been eating there for longer than I can remember.

The day passes slowly. Seconds turn into minutes, it seems. I pour coffee, wipe down counters, chat with Sae, the cook, and hand out endless plates of substandard waffles and pancakes and milkshakes.

"I'm quitting," I admit to Leevy during our lunch break.

"I know," she says, not batting as much as an eyelash.

"How'd you know?"

She shrugs, unwrapping her sandwich. "Well, I wasn't _sure_ sure, but you've been so happy since this modelling gig started that I figured it was only a matter of time."

"I'm sorry," I say, running my figure nail over the grain of the table. Have I really been noticeably happier? I didn't think I had been even if I was on the inside.

"Why?" she laughs. "For leaving me behind in this hellhole?"

"You're a good friend, Leevy. Literally the only one I've had in a long time," I smile at her genuinely and she rolls her eyes. "So yes, I'm sorry."

"I've been here longer than you," she reminds me. "Just promise me that you'll invite me to Fashion Week, okay?"

"VIP passes for you and Dylan."

"As much as I love my son, I'd rather go to Fashion Week without him," she winks at me with a grin. I sigh with relief. We continue eating our lunch as if nothing has happened. She may take it well, but my boss fixes me with a harsh glare when I break the news at the end of my shift. I stand there as he reclines further back into his seat, flicking cigarette ashes all over the floor, his beady eyes scanning my note of resignation.

"I'll continue working until the end of the week," I tell him when he complains that notice this short will make it impossible to get a new waitress in time for the rest of the week. "But give the wages I earn to Leevy. Please."

 

 

 

 

Friday arrives and passes, and suddenly I'm folding up my apron for the last time, placing my nametag on top of the pile and closing my locker. Sae hugs me and wishes me the best. Leevy salutes me, dishcloth in hand, as I leave the diner for the last time. It's invigorating. Knowing that I'll never have to wake up at four thirty so I can get to a ten-hour shift on time is like a breath of fresh air. I head straight home, order Thai takeout, crack open a bottle of wine, and spend the evening with my good friend, Netflix (now that I can afford it again). Four glasses of wine later and I've destroyed most of the Thai and watched too many episodes of Breaking Bad. As the credits roll, I gaze at Peeta's painting which has taken pride of place on my living room wall, the bright colours filling the previously bland room with light. In a weird way it's as if there's a little bit of Peeta back in here with me.

I switch off the TV and sigh at the silence. I don't have anyone to talk to. I can't call Johanna because Peeta would know everything I said within minutes. Finnick would be overly sexual. Annie sounds like my best option, though I feel like I haven't gotten to know her well enough yet to load all of my internalised feelings onto. With a groan I flop face down onto the couch cushions. My head feels like it's going to explode. A therapist would probably tell me what I know I'm refusing to believe. That I've missed – that I'm missing – Peeta. That I didn't appreciate him until he was gone. That I was selfish for making such a rash decision to delete him from my life and pretend that it was what I wanted.

I could live a thousand lifetimes and still not deserve him.

I didn't even try to resolve anything. I ran away like I always do. Peeta was the stronger one in that sense. He always stood and faced problems and tried his best to resolve them rather than let them pass by unhealed. He used to live by the idea that if you didn't fight for what you love, it would escape from you and you'd never get it back.

What if? What would have happened if I had just stayed, I wonder. If I had calmed down and continued preparing dinner. If had gone into the studio once my head was clearer, wrapped my arms around him and whispered my apologies. If had sucked up my pride and begged for him to let me make it better. I like to think that he'd forgive me, even though I'd never be able to make it up to him. Maybe we would've talked it out. Yelled some more. Sobbed until we made sense of it all. Maybe we would've slept in each other's arms that night and our voices would've been heard the next morning instead of debilitating silence.

Peeta was calling into the darkness for too long. He reached out for me so many times and so many times I rejected him because… because of what? Because I was scared? Because I was afraid of failure, of hurt, of the future? Because I didn't trust myself enough to not fuck everything up? I drove him away. I caused the chasm that formed between us during those last few months. Both of us stopped listening. Both of us let each other down. But I'm the one who drew the short straw.

Before I can stop myself, I'm crying, tears dampening the cushions. I gulp down the last of the wine, and collapse into bed, wrapping my arms around a pillow as a poor substitute for what I'm pretending it could be.

 

 

 

 

 

Having no official employment, I find I have a lot of spare time on my hands. After a couple of days of moping around my apartment feeling sorry for myself and doing nothing productive, I check in with Peeta that he has nothing planned, and take some time out at the national park across the state. I hike, swim, and relax; enjoying time away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Peeta and I used to come to the park all the time. We'd trek to Mockingjay point just to watch the sunrise together. It was a time when we truly felt alone, just the two of us, stuck between the delicate balance of night making way for day.

Today is no different. Mist rolls away from the valley in waves with the rising sun and the night sky fades upwards as dawn breaks over the peaks in the distance. I lean against the wooden post signifying the summit of Mockingjay Point watching as the day begins, breathing in the crisp, cold air. It feels good. It feels a thousand miles away from everyone and everything that's troubling me right now.

I spend most of the day hiking what used to be our favourite trails. But time passes and eventually I have to force myself to switch my phone back on, hop in my car and return to the real world. When I arrive at my apartment its already late evening and I find that my refrigerator has decided to switch off during my break. The food inside is ruined so I have to throw it out and go find a late night grocery store to restock.

Thankfully the one store I finally find open is mostly empty and I can make my way up and down the aisle without wanting to ram my cart into everyone who decides that parking the damn things in the middle of the walkway is an okay thing to do. I'm halfway down the canned goods lane when I see a familiar face through a gap in a row of tinned peaches.

"Peeta?" I ask, stepping close. He looks up and around, searching for the source of the noise, and smiles widely when he locates me.

"Katniss! Hey!" he exclaims. "How are you?"

"Let me come around here so we aren't talking between peaches," I say, pushing my cart forward and steering into the aisle he's in.

"You look… comfy," he remarks. I cringe, looking down at my grubby hoodie and yoga pant combo.

"Is that a compliment?"

"Yes, definitely. I'm jealous. I've been stuck in this get up all day," he motions up and down his body and I finally take him in. He's wearing a suit with the tie loosened and the top button his shirt undone. And damn does he look amazing in it.

"Why are you in a suit?"

"Johanna and I have been in more meetings all day. At potential galleries."

"Ah," I nod, as if I know what he's talking about. "Any fun?"

"You gotta love paperwork and grumpy curators," he says, smiling wryly. "Enough about me. What have you been getting up to?"

"Well, I quit at the diner and have been at the park across the state," I tell him.

"Oh, wow. Congratulations for quitting?"

"I want to go back to college," I shrug. "I was wasting my time at the diner. It's no big deal."

"It is a big deal," Peeta says. "That diner doesn't know what it's just lost."

"Thanks," I murmur, blushing.

"And you went to the park then? Tell me you visited Mockingjay Point."

"Wouldn't miss it," I say. Peeta smiles. I can't help but notice it looks a little wistful. Or maybe that's just my imagination working overtime.

Over the tannoy system we're warned that the store is closing in five minutes.

Peeta looks up in surprise, and I can't help but notice his cart is filled with lovely fresh ingredients that he'll no doubt use to concoct some mouthwatering dish. I'm embarrassed when I look down at my own selection of milk, cereal, bagels and frozen dinners by comparison.

"I guess we better checkout," I give him a small smile and start to move away towards the front of the store. I've walked just a few steps away when Peeta calls my name again and steps back closer to me.

"I almost forgot to tell you," he says, shaking his head. "Uh, I'm having a little, uh, get together style thing at my place on Friday. For Annie and Finn. You're welcome to join us."

"Um, okay," I say. "What kind of thing is this? Do I need to dress up? Bring a gift?"

"Strictly casual. You can bring a gift if you want but I'm sure Annie and Finn would appreciate a wedding gift rather than an engagement gift."

"Wait," I say, my eyes widening. "Annie and Finnick are engaged?"

"Well, yeah. They've been together for years."

"I didn't even…" I trail off, racking my brain for any indication I should've picked up on that meant that they were together. I think of the 'F' charm on Annie's necklace. Finnick's comment of 'I'm taken', the way they seemed to always be touching. The little smiles. I feel like slapping myself. Why am I always so blind to this kind of thing?

"I'd love to come," I say, realising that I've just been standing there saying nothing for at least thirty seconds. Peeta grins. "What time should I be there?"

"Six thirty. At my place."

"Okay," I say, gripping the handle of the cart tightly. His place. The apartment that used to be our place. "I'll see you Friday. At six thirty."

It creeps up on me over the next few days until it reaches a point where I can't just ignore it anymore. As soon as Peeta mentioned that the engagement party was going to be at our old place I felt it- a niggling anxiety at the idea of being back where everything fell apart. I haven't even been on that street since then, let alone actually inside the building.

Being back there is going to be weird. And scary. And weird. I wonder how much of it has changed. How much of it has stayed the same. If any of it has stayed the same. Has he thrown all my stuff away? Packed it up and stored it somewhere with the assumption that surely, she'd come back and get it. Have all marks of my presence been erased? I can't decide what will hurt more: finding that Peeta has left everything as it is, or finding that I no longer exist in any part of the apartment that I once called home.

 

 

 

 

On Friday my anxiety has reached peak level. Sitting around waiting for the day to pass makes me antsy so I plug in my headphones, pull on some sneakers, and go for a much needed run. I run until I'm breathless and then push myself further, splashing through puddles and not allowing myself to stop until I've got halfway around the trail that loops back behind my apartment. I pause and brace my hands on my knees, gasping for breath and sweating profusely. Even though I look like a mess and am only halfway done with my run, this is what I need. I need to exert myself to the point where I haven't got the energy to let myself overthink today.

It will be fine, I remind myself as I set off again. You'll be with friends, celebrating something good. Don't make it something it isn't.

It's one o'clock when I arrive home. I hop into the shower and make something to eat, sitting by the window and looking out into the street as I do so. This neighbourhood isn't ever busy since it's just off the main route into the centre of the city, but it's interesting enough. Once I look past the peeling paint and cracked concrete, it's not that bad. I watch a woman flick her cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and crush it beneath her shoe and a couple arguing on the steps outside their building. I watch as the sky becomes more and more overcast as new storm clouds roll in, and finally move when raindrops start hitting the glass. Okay. Perhaps it really is that bad here.

I spend the next hour painting my nails. Prim always told me that painted nails were what made you feel confident, and although I don't exactly agree, I feel as if I need as much confidence as I can get this evening. The forest green colour is beautiful and when I paint the last nail with top coat so it doesn't chip I can't help but admire the glossy sheen. Having my nails done at the studio have obviously made an impression on me. Any time now I'll be a regular at the nail salon several blocks over. Prim would laugh if she could see me now.

Peeta said casual, so I pull on my least-worn jeans, my boots and a simple grey shirt. I pull my hair up out of my face into the braided updo my mother was so good at when I was younger. Before I realise it's six o'clock. I've spent so long fussing about what I'm going to wear that I'm probably going to be late. Rushing around my apartment, I grab my keys and throw a jacket on, before locking up and jumping into the car. All the way to Peeta's my hands grip the wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. When I finally arrive I have to sit in the car to mentally prepare myself. The street looks exactly the same. So does the building. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and take a deep breath. I'm fine.

My body must go into autopilot mode because I don't even remember riding the elevator up here. I don't remember walking along the familiar corridor, stumbling slightly on the patterned carpet, or even knocking on the door until it swings open and Peeta is there, filling up the doorway and giving me a welcoming smile.

I wonder if he feels any awkwardness in this situation at all.

"Hey, come on in!" he says.

"I'm sorry I'm late," I stammer, stepping forward.

"You aren't. It's barely past six thirty," he reassures me. "You're early, actually. Everyone else is stuck in traffic."

"Oh."

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asks. I shake my head. "Well, relax. I'll be cooking if you need me."

At first glance everything is pretty similar. Some of the furniture has been moved around, small pieces are completely new, but overall nothing drastic has changed. The kitchen is still a tad too small for Peeta's liking, and the same table and chairs set is still sat in the corner. I venture further forward and into the living space. So far that's the most changed area. There's a new, much larger TV taking pride of place to my left and the couch is new, but I recognise the horrendous carpet on the floor and the blanket strewn over the sofa and the armchair in the corner beside the bookcase. That was my armchair. I bought it for fifteen dollars at Salvation Army and I practically lived in it.

I'm glad to see that the window seat is still there. I loved that window seat. I would sit there with a cup of coffee and a book on rainy days, curled up in the same blanket that now rests on the sofa and listening to the rain against the huge glass windows. The view is spectacular as well. Unlike my view of one street, you can see half the city from here. It's raining now, in fact, and the lights of the buildings shimmer behind the water that rolls down the glass.

There's a knock at the door and Finnick, Annie, Johanna and a guy so tall he has to duck when he enters the room pile in in a blur of laughter and 'hellos'.

"Katniss!" Annie greets me warmly once she spots me standing awkwardly by the coffee table. "I hoped you would make it! How are you?"

"I'm great," I say with a laugh as she throws her arms around me. "Congratulations on the engagement."

"Thank you," she says, pulling away. The joy on her and Finnick's faces is obvious. They have a newlywed glow about them and they aren't even married yet. Finnick and Peeta share a bear hug full of laughter and Johanna smacks Finn on the shoulder before introducing the man to me.

"Brainless, this is Thom," she says. Thom looks down at Johanna and shakes his head before smiling warmly at me.

"It's lovely to meet you, Katniss," he says. I smile back at him. He and Johanna are definitely the most mismatched pair here. Already I can tell that Thom is quiet and calm. I guess he's the one who balances Johanna out and reigns her in when she's acting overly crazy.

Peeta tells everyone to sit down and serves up a ridiculous amount of food. With everyone else sitting next to their significant others, Peeta and I are again left sitting side-by-side. Our elbows keep bumping into each other and our knees brush against each other, until eventually I just leave my leg where it is, pressed up against his. My skin prickles at the feeling of him being so close, and I know that my cheeks must be at least a little red. I hide my face behind my wine glass instead.

Conversation flows as easily as the wine and even though I don't understand some of the inside stories everyone else laugh over, I try to take part as much as I can. As the evening progresses, I notice the little mannerisms everyone shares more and more. The way Finnick slings his arm around the back of Annie's chair and watches her like she's the sun while she speaks. The way she keeps looking at her engagement ring – a simple silver band with a stunning blue-green gem in the middle of two diamonds - mid-sentence and has to be prompted to continue. Even Johanna, who sometimes seems to be too tough to be silly and romantic, holds Thom's hand throughout the entire dinner, only letting go to gesture wildly about something or to push his hair back over his face. Thom remains quiet, but the love is evident in his eyes.

"What's the deal with Jo and Thom?" I ask Peeta quietly once everyone else is occupied. He leans back his chair and smiles.

"They've been together for ages now and are practically a married couple, even if they don't want to admit it," he says, stretching his arms above his head. My eyes dart downwards as his shirt rides upwards, revealing toned stomach and his happy trail. I blink and look away, gulping down more wine. I know his body. I know how to make him call my name, and now I'm the one who's a mess over a sliver of skin.

"Does it surprise you?" Peeta asks. "That she isn't some crazy singleton?"

"I guess I figured she was the wild orgy type," I say. Peeta laughs, louder than I thought he would, drawing the attention of the rest of the group.

"Care to share?" Finnick asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Katniss was just-"

"Don't you dare," I say, fixing him with a look. He backs off, still smirking.

"I heard the word orgy," Johanna says, narrowing her eyes.

"That's what caught your attention?"

"Well, obviously," she says. Peeta laughs again, even louder.

"What are you two planning?" Finn asks. "Peet, you told me this was going to be a casual thing with friends… as in dinner. Not an orgy."

"Hey, an orgy is basically that sans the dinner, and not necessarily between friends," Jo retorts. Peeta snorts beside me and I punch him on the arm. "This is your fault!" he chuckles, rubbing his arm. I roll my eyes.

 

 

 

 

Eventually everyone moves on to other conversation topics and we migrate into the living room. With the couch full and Johanna claiming my armchair, I sit by the window and press my cheek against the cold glass. Wine always makes me emotional by itself, and sitting here with my ex and his coupled off friends in my former home makes me feel lonelier than ever. Fate may have brought me back to Peeta, but now it's just taunting me and making it worse.

I drift in and out of the conversation but my focus is on the apartment. I look around, memories flashing before my eyes at what happened on that table, by that door, standing in the kitchen. A thousand moments of laughter, of anger, of passion, all lost in a heartbeat. I close my eyes to try to quell the tears threatening to brim over and can almost feel Peeta stepping up behind me, holding me in his arms and resting his chin on the top of my head as the sun went down. It's a fond memory, one that I associate with this view. A bitter part of me wonders how many other girls have sat here since I left, how many other girls have stood in that kitchen, lain in his bed.

When I open my eyes again, the tears are gone, and resentment lies deep in my chest. I swirl the last of my wine around in my glass and force myself to join in with everyone else. This isn't a night to wallow. This is a night to be happy for two friends as they begin a new chapter of their lives.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What I wake up to is the last thing I expect. I'm lying on a bed with Peeta at my feet pulling my boots off.

"What are you doing?" I murmur, squinting up at him in the darkened room as he places my shoes aside and tugs the duvet over me.

"You fell asleep, Kat. Everyone's gone home. You can stay here for tonight," he says gently, lying a blanket over the duvet.

"Are you sure?" I ask, burying my face into the pillow and already falling back asleep. Peeta moves towards the door way and says something in reply, but I don't catch it.

 

 

 

 

 

The obnoxious trrrring! of the alarm is what wakes me. I roll over with a groan, burying my face into the pillow and bunching the duvet tighter around me. Why I'm being awoken by the alarm, I don't know. Peeta's always the one who wakes up first and turns the damn thing off, and I always wake not long after of my own accord because even while unconscious my body can still sense whether Peeta is by my side or not.

"Peetaaa," I moan. "Turn it off please." The ringing continues. I frown. "Peeta?" I lift my head and find cold, empty mattress beside me, and an empty room.

And then I remember. Shit.

Sitting up, I rest my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, feeling like an idiot. I can't believe that all it took was a night's sleep in this apartment to make me seemingly forget the last two years. I run my hands through my hair only for my fingers to get caught in the pinned up braids at the base of my scalp. I pull out all the pins and shake out my hair, before taking in my surroundings.

I'm in our old bedroom. It's small, but light and airy and comfortable. Much nicer than my current bedroom, anyway, which has mildew running up the walls and a draft. The bed is different. The wardrobe is new. Soft morning light streams through the open window to my right and I sigh. I can't believe this. Passing out and staying the night was not part of my plan. Peeta must think I'm a complete moron. Everyone must have laughed at me. My cheeks redden when I remember Peeta pulling my boots off my feet and tucking the bed sheets around me. I flop backwards against the pillow and stare at the ceiling. How am I going to face him now? I probably look like I've been to hell and back having slept in my clothes.

Bringing the duvet up to cover my face, I inhale deeply. Everything smells like fresh linen and the unforgettable musk that screams Peeta. It's a mix of bakery bread, paints, and something else I've never been to be able to place. Whatever it is it's uniquely him. It probably explains why I had the best night's sleep I've had in a long time. And why I dreamt of him. And why I forgot that I've been single for the past two years.

Now that the alarm is silent, I realise how quiet the place is. I can't hear anything but the murmur of traffic outside. Sliding (albeit reluctantly) out of the bed, I walk towards the door, bracing myself to find Peeta laughing at me on the other side. Instead, my hand makes contact with a piece of paper taped to the door handle.

_Katniss-_

_Feel free to use the bathroom. I'll be back soon. I hope you slept well._

_Peeta :)_

That explains why everything is so quiet then. Most mornings I could wake up to the sound of him humming as he cooked, the tapping of a keyboard or clinking of brushes in jars, or at least footsteps as he moved about. I crush the paper into a ball and head for the bathroom, where I find two folded towels and a toothbrush on the counter. I lean against the closed door. God dammit. Does he think of everything?

I use the toilet and pick up the toothbrush left out for me. I do feel kind of gross, and he did tell me to go ahead. Besides, he wouldn't have left those towels out without meaning for me to use them, right? In order to stop myself from questioning everything, I force myself into the shower and sigh at the feeling of the hot water running over my skin. Peeta still keeps his toothpaste and brush in the shower so I brush under the hot water before reaching for a bottle of shampoo. The confined space quickly begins to smell of the shampoo I associate with Peeta. Whenever we'd share a shower he'd wash my hair using the same shampoo he used, massaging my scalp with a gentle touch. Somehow my own fingers don't give the same affect.

Once showered, I wrap myself in a towel and quickly dry my hair so that it isn't dripping all over the tiled floor and then twist it up in the smaller of the two towels so it's out of the way. I pull on my jeans and t-shirt and my socks, grimacing at the feeling of putting dirty clothing on right after showering. The apartment is still silent when I step out of the bathroom. The blanket and pillow on the couch show that Peeta slept there last night, and the plates and cutlery on the dish rack mean that he's tidied up while I've slept in his bed. I grab the glasses and dishes and dry them, moving with ease to put them back where they belong. I guess not everything changes. He still keeps a full set of butcher knives. And the dinner plates are still in the top left cabinet.

I still feel like an intruder though. Surely I shouldn't feel this out of place in the house I lived in for three years?

After putting away the dishes, I wipe down all the countertops. It's the least I can do for him. He's already allowed me to stay the night and have a shower. If I can repay him little by little, he'll barely notice and won't tell me to stop like he always did. The apartment is still silent once I've tidied the kitchen, so I take this opportunity to look around the place a little more. I move further down the corridor, past the bedroom and the bathroom, past the store cupboards, and there, at the end is Peeta's studio. My heart beats faster and faster the closer I get to the door, but it's locked.

Immediately I feel guilty for looking around his home like this and back away. What if the door hadn't been locked and he had caught me in there? He's let me stay over and now I'm inspecting his apartment. Racing for the bedroom, I yank my boots on, hook my jacket over my arm, and grab my discarded bag, wiping my eyes with the heel of my hand as I head for the door. Just as I'm twisting the door handle to pull it open, the door is pushed open from a force from the other side. I trip over my own feet trying to get out of the way and fall against the wall, only for Peeta to dart forward and catch me before I can end up on the floor.

"Oh, shit, Katniss!" he exclaims, helping me steady myself.

"Sorry-"

"Hey, it's fine," he says, closing the door behind him. I swallow, noting the way his shirt clings to his sweaty body, the way his cheeks are slightly flushed. The empty water bottle in hand. "I just went out for a run. Did you find my note?"

"I did, yes. Thank you," I stumble over my words, pulling my gaze away from his chest and stepping further back into the apartment in exactly the opposite direction that I wanted to go in. That's just like Peeta to arrive as I was leaving.

"You weren't leaving, were you?" he asks.

"Well, I should really be getting back… I've already wasted too much of your time…"

"Oh, uh..." he pauses, "I thought- sorry. No, you can go if you want. I mean, you aren't wasting my time."

"I am. I've already forced you to sleep on the couch." I say, looking at my feet. With everyone else here for dinner last night I felt like I could hide more. Like there was less pressure. And now, in the light of day, it's awkward between the two of us. I want to scream. I want to shove him and demand to know why he's so hot and cold around me. I don't want to play games anymore. I don't want a repeat of last time.

"The couch is comfy." he shrugs.

And there it is again. He's playing everything off, joking and shrugging after stumbling through a sentence just ten seconds ago. I force myself to meet his gaze, hoping to find an answer there. He glances away again though, running his hand through his hair. My stomach rumbles. I need something to eat. Something that will settle my rolling stomach.

Peeta smiles slightly when his stomach growls in response to mine.

"I was going to make pancakes," he says. "I know you like pancakes for hangovers."

"Are you inviting me to stay for breakfast?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"That's what friends do, right?"

I bristle. Friends. Pancakes sound good. And it will take half an hour tops. And it sure beats my sad cereal at home.

"Fine," I relent, and then I catch myself.

I'm doing what he's doing. Dancing between letting myself be around him and ignoring him. I'm lost in the confusion of my feelings for him, wanting to fall back into what we had. It could be so easy.

Peeta heads for the bathroom after telling me to sit and I hear him moving about and then the shower starts running. I keep myself occupied with my phone while I wait, and it's only when the water shuts off and the bathroom door opens that I look up… just in time to see Peeta walk straight across the hallway into the bedroom wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. I immediately look down, blushing furiously, and ignore the way my stomach tightens at the sight of the broad span of his shoulders tapering down to his hips.

"Sorry for making you wait," he says, pushing his damp hair out of his face as he enters the kitchen a few minutes later, now fully dressed. I bite my lip and shake my head, shifting on the seat. "Now, where was I?" he says, before pulling out a pan for the pancakes.

"How was your run?" I ask in order to fill the silence. My foot jiggles nervously under the table. What are you doing?! the voice in my head screams at me. You should've left while he was showering. You should've made it clear that it's not going to be that simple. I ignore the voice. It's right, but when did I ever listen to my conscience?

"It was good, actually. Running is good for… clearing my head. Especially after drinking too much, even if it was for a good cause."

"How'd everyone get home then?" I ask. Keep talking. Keep talking.

"Thom was the DD," Peeta says as he began stirring batter. "Why? Did you think I kicked my good friends out into the street to fend for themselves?"

"No, no," I say, my eyes widening.

I don't miss the way he doesn't mention his reasons for allowing me to stay. How is he so okay with all this? He really does not seem at all bothered by my presence in the home we used to share. He must be really over me.

 

 

 

Later that day, as I sit at my kitchen table with my laptop, an email notification comes in.

_Just a heads up: On Wednesday we'll be starting with some bed shots for my exhibition. I'll see you at Twelve at 10 am._

_Have a good weekend._

_Peeta._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the slight wait! Thank you louezem for betaing and making this hellish chapter make sense :)

Just when I think I've got my nerves under control, they bubble up and spill over and leave me as a worried mess. I'm sure that other models feel at least a little anxious in this situation, but I've never done something like this before.

Correction - I have, but that was an intimate, private moment between Peeta and me. It wasn't part of a job. It was something just for us.

I replied to Peeta's email announcing the commencement of his own exhibition work with a simple  _'okay, that sounds great!'_  even though my heart was racing so hard I could almost feel it bouncing against my ribcage. I turn to the Internet to answer my questions, too embarrassed to ask Peeta and too nervous to leave them until the last minute, but the Internet doesn't help, instead providing me with sarcasm and memes that do nothing to calm me down.

I go for long, arduous runs to clear my mind and force myself to do something other than mope around. I try searching for jobs closer to the college now that I'm no longer working at the diner. Modelling for Peeta is great, but I have no idea how long it will last. By the time Wednesday does finally arrive, I begin to wish that I hadn't tried to make time go faster. I'm gripping the steering wheel so tightly on the way over to Twelve that my knuckles are white. Perhaps I should've called upon my neighbours in apartment D6 and asked for something to smoke. On the way up to Peeta's studio in the elevator, I have to grit my teeth in an effort to quell their chattering.

Johanna opens the door when I knock.

"You don't have to knock, you know. If you're expected, just come on in," she says, ignoring my 'hello'. A smirk worms its way onto her face. "How'd you enjoy your sleepover at Peeta's?"

"I don't know what you think happened, but it wasn't that," I retort, feeling my cheeks stinging.

"Oh, I know nothing happened. Peeta would be freaking out even more if something did." She whirls away down the corridor, leaving me standing there with red cheeks and confusion adding to my nerves.

Even more? What did that mean? Did Peeta want something to happen? Is that what Jo is getting at? But I can't worry about that now. Letting out a breath through my nose, I wipe my sweating palms on my pants and follow Johanna, déjà vu sweeping over me. This is how I felt when I came here for the first time, and everything turned out pretty good. Today will be no different. Today is professional work. It's not like Ashton Kutcher is going to leap out mid-shot and proclaim that I've secretly been on Punk'd this whole time.

The main room of the studio has been transformed. All it really is a few backdrops that have been shifted about, but it all looks so professional that I don't know what to think. And there, to the left under the scrutiny of multiple lights, is a bed. It's a simple thing with a wrought iron frame and plain white bed sheets, but the fact that it's there and that this is actually happening is almost too much for me to handle. Peeta is sat on the floor surrounded by camera lenses and writing stuff down on a clipboard and doesn't see me come in.

"Ignore him," Jo says when she notices me looking at Peeta. "He always gets so focused on stuff like this. A fire could break out and he wouldn't realise." I fight the urge to tell her that I know he's like that but say nothing, biting down on my tongue to stop the words spilling out. I already have a feeling that Johanna is slightly wary of me and Peeta working together and don't want all of that coming to light on a day like this. Instead, I follow Johanna into the kitchen where Annie waits with a mountain of cosmetics from mascara wands to curling irons.

Annie sits me down and Johanna leaves and I let myself relax a little. It's then that I notice the music playing in the background. It sounds like something Johanna would listen to: a mix of rock and metal and alternative bands that I can't decipher. I'm glad the place isn't silent though. Silence would make the tension too obvious.

"You're nervous," Annie's soft voice breaks me out of my thoughts. I open my eyes and grimace. I guess the music isn't doing a thing to help me relax.

"Is it that obvious?"

"You keep fidgeting."

"Sorry," I say, stilling my bouncing leg.

"Peeta and Johanna – they're an amazing team. So professional. They want to get the job done as much as you do," she says, pulling the elastic off the end of my braid to let my hair fall free.

"I'm afraid that it'll be awkward… that people will laugh at me," I murmur. Annie smiles at me sympathetically.

"No one is laughing at you. Especially not Peeta, who I know is the only person you're truly concerned about. And you've seen Peeta's work, right? You'll look beautiful, no matter what."

I smile, looking down at my hands twisting in my lap. "Thank you."

"Johanna isn't really a bitch, either," Annie continues, laughing a little at my expression. "I mean, she appears to be, but she's just… protective. At the end of the day, it was her who convinced Peeta to try another exhibition. She started out like you- as a muse, almost – and now she's become his equal."

"How'd they meet?" I ask, trying to think of where I might have read about how the two became friends.

"Thailand."

"Huh?"

"They met in Thailand," she explains. "At some art event. She told Peeta right out that his perfectionism was getting him nowhere fast, and that's what started them working together. Jo's the one who gets the ball rolling if Peeta starts getting stuck in a loop."

I nod as I take in this information. That sounds about right. Peeta always paid attention to detail, working and working until he was finally happy or until his deadline had arrived. Jo's rocky attitude is still hard for me to navigate though I can see how she helps Peeta move from point A to point B. She's always seemed focused while she works, adjusting what needs to adjusting, and finding logical routes around problems.

"Hey, Katniss. I didn't hear you come in," Peeta says, poking his head into the kitchen and smiling.

"It's okay," I smile back at him. "You looked pretty focused."

"Jo and I are ready to go, so, whenever you're ready, really."

"Okay," I nod. He nods back, smiles again, and ducks out.

"You see," Annie whispers, the amusement evident in her voice. "He's just as nervous as you are."

I try to remember this as I walk out toward the camera. Johanna instructs me on what shots we're aiming for, and I stand in front of a plain background as Annie messes with my hair. I'm wearing a plain matching bra and panty set and a soft, worn button-up shirt over the top. This isn't that bad since I'm a little covered up, and I feel fairly comfortable as the camera snaps away. Peeta has his camera connected to the laptop beside him and he and Johanna keep looking from me to the screen and muttering things to each other. It's unnerving, not knowing what it is their exactly saying, but whatever it is they understand.

"I think we've got what we needed here," Peeta says, flashing me a smile but barely meeting my gaze.

"Let's move on to the windows," Jo adds, and we do just that.

Eventually I shed the shirt, and as the shoot progresses, I relax more and more, the nerves flowing out of my body. I tilt my head slightly into the light from my position next to the huge warehouse windows, and Jo claps her hands together.

"Stay like that!" she instructs, and the snap of the camera is heard again and again. Annie darts forward when Peeta and Johanna are looking at pictures on the laptop, a smile on her face.

"Am I doing okay?" I whisper as she twists parts of my hair back from my face, arranging it over my shoulders.

"Well, I'm not a photographer like Jo, or an artist like Peeta, but you're looking pretty amazing so far," she brushes more powder on my skin. "I'm kind of jealous."

"You're the one getting married soon," I remind her. She just laughs and retreats back off the set. Peeta adjusts his camera.

"Okay, I need you to look directly at the lens now, Katniss," I do as he says and just as he takes the photo, I pull a face, sticking my tongue out and crossing my eyes. Jo snorts and Peeta rolls his eyes as Annie laughs, and my own uncontrollable laughter bubbles up in my chest until I can't hold it in any longer.

"I- I'm sorry," I gasp, almost doubling over. "I was just being stupid." I wipe my finger under my eye to wipe away the tears I find there, and the camera goes again.

"Peeta's using that now," Johanna warns me. "You laughing in your underwear is going to be the entire exhibition. Front and centre."

"Don't you dare," I warn, pointing directly at the camera. Peeta takes another photo. I scowl. Another click.

"I think it's time we break," he chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. "We've all lost focus now."

I throw on a kimono Johanna lends me and we all migrate to the kitchen for lunch. The tense, potentially awkward atmosphere I expected isn't present. Instead, my face ends up aching I've been laughing for so long. I feel more comfortable than I thought I would be in this situation, sat with people I suppose I can now consider my friends. Once everyone else is occupied with conversation, I gaze around the circle and just watch them, the way they all interact, the way they're unafraid to say what's on their mind, none of them pressuring each other making each other uncomfortable. Everyone is calm. Everyone is taking it as it is. And I suppose I should too.

I should ignore Peeta's strange reactions and focus on deciding on what I want for myself. I've already started looking to get back to college, and I can't have old feelings dragging me down.

After lunch we return to work. This time Johanna and Peeta have dragged over the chaise Johanna sprawled out on the first time I arrived here and have strewn a plain bed sheet over it. I go from leaning against the piece of furniture to sitting on it to lying back on it as Peeta moves the camera all around and Johanna adjusts the lights to get different areas of light and dark on my body. Peeta never looks me in the eye, however, except for when he tells me to look towards the camera again and I stare right at him. His eyes lock onto mine as he moves away from the camera, and he stumbles over what he's saying for just a second before clearing his throat and hiding behind the bulky lens again.

Finally we move to the bed. Again, like on the chaise, I move from standing to sitting to lying down, but there's more rearranging of limbs, locks of hair and sheets. Annie drapes the sheet over me so that I'm holding it up to my chest while my naked back is on show. Although this makes me anxious, I again relax as everyone flits around me, the camera snapping and lights shining down on me. Peeta doesn't say a word apart from small sentences to Jo about lenses and angles and other photography terms I don't understand. I push my chest out, shifting slightly, and Peeta takes another photo. This time his gaze locks onto mine and I hold it determinedly until he looks away, his neck flushing red. He fidgets with his camera and doesn't look back up at me.

I feel angry for a moment. Angry that he can go from chatting with me to offering pancakes to blushing again. Does he realise how frustrating he's being? Does he even realise what he's doing? I don't understand him, and I'm not just talking about today. Ever since we met again he's been hot and cold to me. At one moment he's friendly and borderline flirting, and the next he's acting like this is just a job again. Behind the camera he's weird, but when it's not pointed my way he's normal again.

The next few hours are the same. Jo and Peeta finally decide that they've got some good shots and call it a day, and I run to change. Watching my legs disappear into my jeans and pulling my thick sweater over my torso feels amazing. Today has been kind of freeing, but I'm still glad to be wearing clothing aside from underwear and sheets. I step back into the studio, clutching my bag in my hand, and walk towards Peeta, who's standing in front of his laptop with his back to me.

"Did I do okay?" I ask once I'm a step behind him. He jumps slightly, and glances at me briefly before looking back at the screen.

"You did better than okay. Do you want to look?" he offers. I nod and move closer to him, staring down at the screen. We're silent for a moment as he navigates through the images with the keypad, and I grimace as the pictures roll through.

"This is cringeworthy," I say, wrinkling my nose.

"How is it cringeworthy?"

"I look really stupid," I laugh.

"That's a direct insult to Jo and I," Peeta remarks. I roll my eyes. "We're experts. It's impossible for us to make you look bad."

"You can even make the ugly ones look acceptable."

"There are no ugly ones, Katniss. You've been brilliant the past few shoots."

"You're only saying that because I was half-naked. It's unfair to tell someone they look bad naked."

"Katniss, rest assured that you did well," Peeta finally says after a few long seconds of silence. He looks up at me and smiles. I scowl at the screen instead. Now he wants to smile at me? When I'm fully clothed?

I press my lips together as I look at the images of me scrolling past. Some of them are pretty good actually. If I had more clothes on I'd put them on Facebook. None of them are particularly explicit, but Peeta's neck still flushes as we move through the gallery. That part of his reaction is more perplexing. Blushing is natural, right? But unprofessional. And why is he getting like that? I'm not blushing. A faint feeling of something other than irritation and confusion bubbles up inside me. I almost feel empowered. Confused, but empowered.

"Well, you can delete those ones," I snort once we arrive at the images of me pulling faces. That certainly isn't empowering.

"Oh no, I like those. Johanna was right when she said they'd be great front and centre at the exhibition. I might even pay to have them put on the billboards on the highway."

"I'd shoot you with an arrow if you did. I could make it look accidental." I threaten.

"You probably would, too," he smirks.

I leave the studio a little while later, feeling a little lighter than I did, but no less confused as to what Peeta and I are doing.

* * *

The next shoot is a late-night one the following Monday. Having spent the last four days in sweatpants and only washing my hair once, I feel gross, but a little time with Annie makes me look good as new. The photos don't take long, and even I have to admit that the end result is pretty amazing. The lighting cast dramatic shadows across me, exaggerating the curves of my body, the points where my bones push up the skin.

Peeta isn't much different from last time, flushing a little less, but that doesn't make it any more unsettling. I've never been good at reading people, but even I can tell that something is up. I stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom and steel myself. I need to put an end to this and be direct with him. It's not going to do us any good dodging around what stands between us. I tie my hair back into my usual braid and take a deep breath. Even if this ends in yelling, it'll be better than whatever this is.

Annie has already left when I step out fully dressed. Johanna is pouring a glass of water in the kitchen, and through the doorway I can see Peeta packing away his camera.

"You look funny," Jo interrupts my thoughts.

"What do you mean?" I ask, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. She smirks behind her glass.

"Honestly, you two are unbelievable," she says. "We all saw Peeta blushing. And we all saw you staring at him like you think he's sex on legs."

"I wasn't staring at him," I grumble.

"You were."

"I had to look at the camera."

"How long are you going to spend deflecting the truth? It's pretty obvious that you two are a mess yet neither of you are able to speak to each other without it being awkward or blatant flirting."

"I- we… neither of us are flirting!"

"Oh, please Brainless," Johanna fixes me with a look. She knows she's got me trapped. I twist my bag strap tightly around my fingers and then release it, before twisting it again. Peeta and I haven't been flirting. She's wrong about that. But she's right about everything else. Right now she's my best option since she's known him the last two years while I've disappeared off the face of the earth.

"I don't know what to say to him," I finally admit, my voice small.

"You know exactly what you want to say to him," Jo says, setting her glass down. "You're just too afraid to say it. He's in exactly the same position, trust me. Just… just approach him. Before it interferes with your work relationship. Tell him what's on your mind before I lock you in a room together and leave you there until you hash out your differences."

I watch as she sweeps out of the room and calls her goodbyes to Peeta, and then turns to me and brandishes what must be her key to the studio with a wink. I listen to the sound of her heels making contact with the wooden floor and the door shutting and the key turning in the lock. Brilliant. She's locked us in. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and step determinedly forward, Johanna's words echoing in my head. Just say what you want to say. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Peeta I-"

"Oh! Katniss! I thought you'd left," Peeta he says, flashing me a smile and zipping up the camera case.

"No… still here," I say, shifting slightly. "I just… do…" I trail off, and Peeta he waits patiently for me to finish. I close my eyes briefly to collect and organize my thoughts. "What are we doing?" I finally blurt out.

"When? For the next shoot?" Peeta reaches for his iPad but I reach out and grip his elbow to stop him.

"No, not the next shoot. What are we doing?  _You and I_?"

Peeta's relaxed expression begins to slip away. Here we go again. "What do you mean?" he asks.

"I- I don't know how to be around you. You never look at me when I'm on set and you're all fidgety," I release a breath, gesturing wildly with my hands as the dam begins to crack. "One minute it's like you're my friend and we can chat and I don't feel awkward, and the next you're making me pancakes and then you're being all weird again!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Peeta says nonchalantly, placing another lens into its case.

"Yes you do!" I exclaim. "Please just tell me what is going on, Peeta."

"Nothing's going on," he says, standing up and sliding his laptop into its case. He's deflecting. He's trying to leave me without an answer. I stare at him, my mouth dropping open.

"Peeta!" I snap, balling my hands into fists at my sides. "Look at me! Stop pretending like there isn't anything we need to talk about."

He sighs and walks into the kitchen, leaving me stand there by myself in shock until I follow him, cornering him by the fridge.

"I don't want to talk about that right now," he mutters.

"Well I do," I snap. "Otherwise we're never going to sort this out and we'll be back to square one. Don't walk away from me and-"

"Don't walk away from  _me_?!" Peeta spits out, and the sudden ferocity in his eyes makes me hesitate, though I'm almost glad that he's finally reacting. "How can you tell me not to walk away you when you were the one who left me? You left, Katniss. And I know I was a shitty excuse for a boyfriend back then but when I realised I wasn't being fair to you I was willing to put in the time and effort to fix what I had caused. You left. You didn't even tell me you were going."

"I'm sorry for leaving. But…but…" I begin to stammer. I hadn't expected him to react quite so angrily.

"But what? You couldn't have at least left me a note to say that you weren't coming back? One phone call, Katniss, was all I needed. One text, even. Just to let me know that you didn't want to be with me anymore so I didn't go looking for you."

"Peeta I-"

He cuts me off again. "These past few months have been virtually impossible. I thought I was never going to see you again. That you were going to be this blank space in my past that would never be filled. I was kidding myself to think that I could just forget about you…" he pauses, looking away. "And then you were standing there right in front of me. After two years of radio silence."

I have nothing else I can say but that I'm sorry. I murmur it again, so quietly I can barely hear it, let alone Peeta. He runs his free hand through his hair and exhales.

"And now we're back to the beginning," he says. "Which was what I didn't want."

"We need to go back before we can start from the beginning," I say. "I want to sort everything out, Peeta."

"Go on then. Tell me why you left," he says defensively, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at me. My mouth opens and closes as I struggle for an answer. And the truth is I really don't know why I left.

"I don't know," I mumble. "I guess I thought I'd gone too far by bringing up your mom. And you looked so hurt and then you didn't come out of your studio for the rest of the night and I just… I knew I couldn't stay."

"Why?"

"Because I wasn't brave enough to just say sorry. I've wanted to say sorry for the past two years, Peeta. I never should have brought up your mom. I was just angry and feeling sorry for myself. I should've understood that your scholarship was important and not been so needy."

At that Peeta's anger seems to deflate a little.

"I was an asshole as well, Kat. You were right. I could have – should have – made time for you. Even if it was eating dinner together or watching TV with you for half an hour," he frowns, looking back at me.

I meet his gaze straight on. "You were an asshole." I nodded. "I missed you and it hurt that you didn't seem to have any time to spare for me. But I still should have talked to you about it instead of lashing out. I didn't mean it," I whisper.

"Mean what?"

"You aren't anything like your mom, Peeta," I say, word vomit quickly rising. "I shouldn't have left. I regret leaving and I just want you to know that I would take it all back if I could."

During our short but heated exchange, I've stepped closer and closer to him, my body yearning for his arms around me. For his forgiveness. All I want is to know whether we can truly start afresh, or if, after everything, it would be better for us to stay apart.

"Okay," Peeta eventually says. My shoulders relax slightly. This went better than I thought. There's still more to talk about, but this is a good start. I look at Peeta from my shoes and find that he's closer to me than I thought, his face a few inches from mine. He has nowhere to go since I've unintentionally backed him up against the fridge and the wall, but I can't find it in myself to move. He stares at me and I focus on his shoulder.

"I'm an idiot. But I'd like us to at least be friends, if you'll allow it," I tell him, fighting the urge to just burst out with what I really want to say. That I've missed his presence. That I don't want to be just friends. That I want him to be mine like he used to be, and I want everything go back to where it was without any of the angst that's brought us here. I want him to hold me and kiss me and tell me  _always_  like he used to.

"I'll allow it," Peeta says with a softness to his tone, and I watch his gaze flicker across my face, at my nose, lips, eyes, and back to my lips again. I bite down hard on the bottom one.  _Stop, Katniss. Before you go too far again. Step away and tell him goodnight. Move! Why aren't you moving?_

My heart races as I meet Peeta's gaze. His conflicted expression mirrors mine, his eyes shimmering with more anger, more tears, and then, underneath, the want that has always been there. It has always been there between us from the first day we met. We both knew then that friendship wasn't the only thing on the cards, and it's this pull that brought us together then, and is pulling us together now.

I'm completely sober which makes the sudden feeling of our lips' finding each other's all the more painful than it would be if I were drunk out of my mind. My hands shoot up without my permission and wind their way into his hair, tugging him more firmly down, and the bags containing his laptop and camera slip off his shoulder and down his arm, hitting the floor with a soft thump. My eyes snap open and I gasp, pulling my mouth away from his, shaking my head. Peeta is so close I can feel his breath hot on my face.

"No, this wasn't meant to happen," I stammer as my entire body tingles. Oh no. I can't even recall who initiated the kiss, but I know it's wrong. We shouldn't be- yet I lean up and kiss him again, quicker this time, pulling away sooner. This time Peeta grips my waist and kisses me back, his inhale of breath catching in his throat.

The emotions flowing through me are making me this way. I feel angry at being so weak, sad at how much I've missed this, delirious that this is happening, and am unable to stop pressing short kisses again his mouth even as I repeat my apologies again and again. What am I even doing? Why hasn't Peeta stopped this? Why am I not stopping this?

"Katniss," the sound of my name being gasped out between kisses forces me to stumble backward. "Why are we doing this?"

"I- I don't know," I say, looking up at my hands as if they were stained with blood. "That shouldn't have happened."

"No, it shouldn't have," he says, dropping his hands from my waist, looking pained. "We can't."

"Don't you want to kiss me?" I ask, astounded at how needy I sound.

"I do, God, I do," he says. "But I- I don't want it to be this way. You said that we should try to be friends."

"Don't blame this on me!" I exclaim, glaring at him. "I don't know how I want this to be? Is there a way it should be for two exes who didn't speak for two years?"

"How am I supposed to know?" he shrugs, avoiding meeting my eyes.

"Why won't you look at me? Are you embarrassed to look at me?" I ask, my heart pounding. "You could have called this entire thing off when I turned up that first day. Why didn't you?"

"You could've easily said no to this too," Peeta retorts, his jaw twitching. "If the two of us working together was going to be such an issue."

"I needed the money," I scowl, and he flinches at my honesty. "Paying for mom's funeral and making the rent was virtually impossible. But don't turn this onto me. I have my reasons for staying."

"This wasn't what I wanted. I didn't mean for… for this to happen."

"For what? For me to arrive at your studio door?"

"N-no, for us to kiss."

"What do you want then?" I say in exasperation. "Just tell me so I can figure out where we stand. That's all I wanted in the first place."

"I don't know what I want! I don't even know how I feel about you anymore, Katniss! Can you honestly expect me to forgive you just because you kissed me?"

I can feel my blood boiling over. Is that what he really thinks of me? That I'm trying to seduce him into forgiving me?

"Why are you blaming me for everything?" I demand, my voice wobbling. "I've said I'm sorry, Peeta. You haven't."

"Fine! I'm sorry! I'm sorry for not knowing how to feel about the girl who left me alone in our apartment two years ago and then reappeared back in my life out of the blue expecting everything to be clear skies. It doesn't work like that, Katniss."

"Don't talk to me like I'm a child."

"Stop acting like one then."

"Fuck you, Peeta," I snap. I was a fool for believing this could ever work out. "You can find else for your damn exhibition. I quit."

Spying his door keys beside the toaster, I snatch them, stalk past Peeta, and slam the door when I leave so hard that the glass rattles in the frame.

Headlights blur through my tears as I speed away from Twelve. That's it then. I fucked up again. I'm still not sure who initiated that kiss. I think it was mutual thing. We both leaned in. We both kept going. Neither of us told the other to stop, and then we were back to yelling at each other, just like we did when we were together. Maybe this is a sign that we shouldn't be around each other. Just thinking of that makes me cry harder, and I wipe my tears away with my sleeve. Suddenly I imagine what it will be like when all contact finally ceases – this time for good. When I'm (hopefully) at college and Peeta is continuing to do what makes him happy without me hanging around to complicate his life. I imagine him moving on while I remain in this cycle of hating myself, and then hating him.

I've just arrived at my apartment when my cell rings. It's Peeta. I force myself to decline the call. I don't want to hear what he wants to say. He's acting like I kissed him expecting him to fall back in love with me. I didn't expect that. I just… acted on impulse. I went with my gut and he can't blame me for that.

But he calls again. And again. And again.

Texts come in, unrelenting.

_Please, Katniss. I'm sorry._

_I didn't mean it._

_Please pick up the phone and tell me you're okay._

_Don't end it like this. Not again._

I switch my phone off and leave it alone for the night. How can I trust anything he says when he can't make up his own mind about us?  _You can't make up your mind either_ , the voice in my head reminds me. And I know it's true.

When I turn the phone back on the following morning, I have thirty missed calls ranging from 11 pm, when I got home, and 4:23 am. The texts continue on in a similar fashion, but there, among the endless rows of Peeta's name, is a message from an unknown number. I open it.

_Pick up your phone brainless_

Only one person calls me by that name. Johanna.

_How did you get my number?_  I quickly text back, scowling at the screen.

_Incoming call from UNKNOWN:_

"What do-" I start, only to be interrupted by Johanna squawking into my ear.

"What the hell happened last night? I said talk to Peeta, not make him come crying to me!"

"He was crying?"

"Of course he was, brainless! And I'm pretty sure you did an equal amount while you were ignoring his texts and phone calls."

"I quit."

"I don't care that you quit," Jo snaps, and I can hear her slamming stuff down in the background, and Thom's voice telling her  _don't smash anything_. "I care that you're hurting my friend. Now snap out of whatever deluded state of mind you're in and tell him you're sorry."

"This isn't just my fault," I insist. "Peeta kissed me too!"

"Y- you what?!" Jo splutters.

"We were yelling at each other and then we kissed and then we yelled some more and I left," I say, hiding my face in my palm.

"Well- I- you need to sort this out. Both of you. I'm not going to stand around watching Peeta get hurt by you, not again. Equally, I don't want you quitting. You're alright, Katniss," I can hear her scowling through the phone. "Just let him talk to you, okay?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, frowning.

"He's on his way to your place as I speak."

"What?! Johanna!" I exclaim, my head twisting in the direction of the door. "How could you- hello? Hello?"

She's already hung up on me. I groan, gripping my phone tightly in my hand. There's no point in Peeta coming here. I've already ruined everything and now I'm unemployed and reeling from what must be the most catastrophic I-want-to-work-this-out attempt in the history of the universe. My body is pulled taut like an elastic band beginning to rip at the edges under the pressure it's being stretched at, and I have a feeling that Peeta coming over here isn't going to make it any better.

I bury my face in my hands and focus on my breathing, but this allows my mind to wonder. When I first approached Peeta yesterday I had no intention of kissing him. All I wanted was to try and figure out where I stood with him, to clear the ground as much as I could and look out to find a clearer sense of direction. Underneath all that I wanted to finally understand how I felt about him, and sitting here with his impending arrival I feel panicked. Because I do still have feelings. Ones that were left wide open and unfinished. Ones that needed to be locked down or set free long ago but were never attended to.

That connection I felt with him from the very first day is still there, beneath the hurt and the anger and the frustration, and I actually want to get that connection back. Whether Peeta does or not is an entirely different story, one that I fear has no happily ever after.

There's a knock at the door.

Even though in reality I must be sat stock-still for thirty seconds, it feels like an eternity. I grip the countertop and take a deep breath. He'll leave if I don't answer. He'll give up, realise I'm hopeless and head back to his life filled with friends and art and no Katniss getting in his way.

"Katniss?" his voice sounds from behind the door. I swallow, pressing my lips together. "Katniss? Open the door."

He knocks again, a little more insistent this time. I hear the strained buzz of what should be the doorbell ringing and his huff of annoyance.

"I know you're there," he says. "You don't work at the diner any more so you can't be there."

I grit my teeth. He'll leave any second now.

"Katniss, please. Just open the door and talk to me."

Tiptoeing forward, I peek through the peephole into the corridor, jumping slightly at the fish-bowl Peeta staring back at me. He sighs, running his hand through his hair and looks left and right down the corridor, once more at my door, before sliding down the wall opposite and resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He pulls out his phone, taps the screen, and puts it up to his ear. I feel my own phone vibrating in my hand just before the call tone rings out, loud and clear. Cursing under my breath, I fight to silence it.

"I heard that!" Peeta exclaims from the corridor. I hear him jump up, my ears still attuned to his heavy footfalls. "Katniss, I know you're right there."

I scowl at my phone and shove it into the pocket of my jeans. "Go away, Peeta. I don't want to talk to you."

"I know. But I'm here and we need to talk. So let me in."

"I'm not going to open the door, Peeta. Go home. I quit, remember?"

"This isn't about you quitting and you know it," he tells me. "I want to talk to you. Without a door between us. We can't leave it like this."

I consider what he's saying. Again, he's right, but I want to be stubborn and make him feel as shitty as I did – as I do. I'm being selfish, but he was selfish as well. We both deserve this. We both deserve to be angry at each other and want to hurt each other. But do we deserve an ending like this? This would be the equivalent of an author writing a saga and then ripping out the very last page. No one would know the ending. It would be lost forever. Peeta shouldn't have to go through that. He should know what the final answer was so he could walk away without uncertainty heavy on his shoulders.

My heart lurches. Whether or not I deserve it, I don't want to go through that either. My hand inches towards the lock across the door. With a determined scowl fixed upon my face, I force it to slide open, twist the door handle, and tug on the door. It doesn't open, courtesy of Cray's fantastic job of maintaining the building. I yank again, putting my weight into it. It doesn't budge, and I fear breaking the lock altogether if I force it anymore.

"Are you okay?" Peeta asks.

"The door's stuck," I mutter, irritated that even this can't go right.

"Let me- let me try from this side," Peeta says, and I step backwards, allowing him space as he shoves the door repeatedly before it finally opens with a worrying crunch. "You should see your landlord about that."

"He won't do anything," I mutter. Peeta shuts the door and faces me.

"Hi," he says. I fold my arms over my chest and take him in. He looks exhausted, the bags under his eyes pronounced and his hair more untidy than tousled, like me. I guess neither of us were able to sleep well after yesterday's events. "I just want to talk."

"Fine."

"Okay, well," he starts, looking around the room. "I want to start with an apology for saying that you were acting like a child. You weren't. I was being unreasonable. I shouldn't have mixed up our past issues with our present. I shouldn't have yelled at you and I feel awful for making you feel bad. Our breakup was as much my fault as it was yours."

I raise an eyebrow.

"We were both responsible for the breakup, Katniss."

"I know that," I say, the sharpness in my words evident even though I try to sound calm and collected.

"So let's deal with that first." Peeta interjects, and he takes a deep breath.

"Back when I was in college... I let my scholarship take over and it became a higher priority than us and I didn't realise what I had lost until you were gone. You were right to feel angry with me for not spending time with you."

"I should've understood how important your scholarship was," I say. "I mean, I did understand, but I wanted your attention and I was missing you and-"

"I missed you as well but I was scared that I'd fail. I needed that scholarship-"

"Because you needed to prove to your mother that art was a valid career choice and show her that you weren't destined to fail," I finish for him, regurgitating everything he'd told me late at night as rain pounded on our apartment windows. Even though he played his mother's harsh words off as nothing, the wobble in his voice had told me it hurt him more than I first thought. "I remember."

"Right." Peeta nodded briefly.

He seems to be in deep thought for a moment before he speaks again. "Katniss, back then, why did you leave me so quickly? Why didn't you answer my calls?"

"I knew that if I didn't go… if I answered your calls… I wouldn't be able to walk away. I couldn't face you. You had no reason to forgive me and I didn't want to see you looking at me like the idiot I was," I tug on my sleeves, refusing to meet his gaze. "And I'm sorry."

"And last night, did that kiss mean anything?"

"I don't know. I didn't mean for it to happen." I shrug, wrapping my arms around myself.

"You already said you didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't either. But did it mean anything?" he looks at me and I can see his confusion.

"Did it mean anything to you?" I challenge.

"Yes, it did. I thought that we were being unfair to each other. It wouldn't do us any good to just forget about our past and pretend the kiss was okay," Peeta says. "I don't want that."

"What do you want then, Peeta?" I ask. This is getting on my nerves. I want him to yell. I want him to shout and me and tell me he's right and I'm wrong just so I can vent back to him with all the shit that's been building up the last two years. That's a long time not to talk to someone about a problem. That's a long time to bottle everything up and then not expect it to resurface.

"I want us to be friends. I think that's the best thing for us."

"For the moment, or forever?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"Are we going to be this way forever? 'Just friends'? After yesterday, I'm pretty sure that won't work out, not with everything between us."

"Johanna said that we could never be friends," Peeta sighs. "She thinks we're only capable of two things: never speaking, or being together. And I don't know whether she's right or not."

I mull over his words, carefully constructing my next sentence. "Well, how do you feel?"

"I don't want to go back to not speaking."

"Me neither." I admit.

Neither of us mention a relationship and my heart aches for him to bring it up so I don't have to. I guess I do still have feelings for Peeta, ones abandoned by my head and locked away in my heart. I don't know what it would do to me if he said that he couldn't ever go back there- back to what we had, what we forgot to cherish. It would crush me. Maybe I'm naïve for hoping that we'd be able to come out of this stronger than before, or perhaps it's that hope that's telling me not give up when we've come so far.

"Even if that's all we can have, I'd like to try to be friends. I hope Jo's wrong. I hope we can do this." Peeta says.

"Friends," I nod my head, ignoring the sinking feeling in my stomach.  _Don't push him. Don't make him overthink this again with unplanned thoughts tumbling out as sharp words._

"And if we want to-" I ask hesitantly, already thinking of a worst case scenario where we can't even be platonic friends.

Something flickers in Peeta's eyes. Hope? Fear? I want it to be both, because then at least I'd know we were both on the same page.

"And if we want to break it off, or be more… we have to talk to each other. We have to work with each other."

"Okay."

"I don't want a repeat of last time. Last time broke me up, Katniss, and I know I hurt you too but please just work with me here," Peeta stares at me determinedly. I chew on my lip and eventually nod.

"Go ahead, then. What else do you want to talk about?" I begin a new topic, trying to give this mess of an argument a little order.

"That kiss."

"What about it?"

"Why did it happen? It just came out of nowhere and I don't understand it."

"I didn't mean to kiss you."

"You just backed me into a corner-"

"You kissed me too," I scowl. "You did. You can't deny that you didn't kiss me back. And you said you wanted to kiss me but that we couldn't. What was stopping us?"

"We were getting in the way. You weren't listening to me when I tried to talk through what I thought."

"Don't you dare try to blame me for what you had an equal part of," I hiss, watching his jaw locking.

"This is exactly like last time. We're both blaming each other when we were both responsible." Peeta begins to pace up and down, running his fingers through his hair, a sure sign he was getting frustrated with me.

"That's what I've been saying all this time," I say, my eyes widening. "We're going around in a circle, can't you see that?"

"Yes, I can see that, Katniss."

"Then why won't you slow down and stop acting like I'm making this harder than it needs to be. I'm the last person who wants this to be a longwinded landslide," I say. "And now we've talked through our breakup and the kiss-"

"-and what?"

"The ground is clearer. Not completely, but more than it was."

"Progress."

"Exactly," I confirm.

"So do you 100% want to try be friends, or am I working with nothing?" I can feel Peeta searching my face for confirmation that this is what I want.

I open my mouth but no words come out. I feel like a fish out of water. My mouth is unable to form the words my head is screaming out. Peeta seems to take my silence the wrong way, assuming that he's answered his own question. That I'm not interested. That I'm not willing to try. And I am. I've already told him this. Does he not believe me?

"I resented you," he says bitterly. I fold my arms over my chest. We're back to square one and talking about the past. "I hated you for so long before I realised that I was just trying to make up excuses for why you left so I wouldn't feel sorry for myself. And then I realised that I didn't hate you. I never hated you. I was just angry with myself."

"I never hated you, Peeta," I mumble. "If you had been the one to leave that night I would've understood."

"But I didn't leave. And that's what I'm struggling to understand. Why you left and I stayed put."

"I left because I was scared that you wouldn't want me after what I accused you of. I didn't want to look into the eyes of another person I loved and have them tell me they didn't want me anymore."

"I wanted you, Katniss. I would've forgiven you if you had forgiven me. But you didn't. You didn't even try."

I crush my arms tighter around myself to hide the shaking of my hands. "There was nothing you needed to be forgiven for."

"Are you seriously going to play that card again?"

"What card?"

"The card where you blame yourself but no one else!"

"Fine, if that's what you want, I'll blame you!" I exclaim. "Fuck you, Peeta, for working on something you loved and having to deal with a needy girlfriend. Thanks a lot for providing your ex with a job. Thanks a lot for being so nice to me when I was always an asshole to you," he stares at me, his brow knitted into a line.

Suddenly he's too stifling my tiny apartment. I want him to leave. I want to be alone. We've yelled at each other again just when we reached a point where we agreed to be friends. What I need right now is for him to let me figure everything out, because I've been ignoring the situation and getting angry when confronted about it which isn't a good way to go.

"Please … just go," I say softly, the sarcasm in my tone from earlier replaced with defeat. "I think we both need some space. I'll call you when I'm ready."

Peeta just nods, and then he's gone. I can still feel the tension in the room. Why are we so incapable of listening to each other and not having a blazing row? That never used to happen. A fire still raged inside me but at least then I had Peeta to calm me down. To balance me out. People change when you aren't there by their side and we are proof of that things can't always be the same and that change is necessary.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: 2/3 of Peeta's chapters. These are not in chronological order. Thank you for reading, and thank you to louezem for being so dedicated :)

Katniss is pulling at her hair, looking more furious than I've seen for months. Tears are shimmering in her eyes though, exposing the emotions fuelling this anger. I'm standing by, watching as she slams around the kitchen, feeling her rage permeating into me. She always manages to do this to me. We rile each other up sometimes, and it ends in arguments like this.

"What is your problem? Do you hate me?" I demand, standing my ground. If she isn't going to even  _tell_ me what I've done wrong I don't see why I should lay on the ground and let her attack me.

"Right now, of course I do!" she growls, fixing me with a glare.

"Why? What have I done?"

"You've ignored me! For weeks!" she exclaims and for half a second I feel awful. She's right. It's not intentional, but I've been engrossed in my scholarship work lately, spending hours in my studio agonising over my work. I know I've missed two pre-planned date nights… and haven't been spending much time with her, I'll admit that, but this scholarship is the only thing between proving my mother wrong and opening up the career path I've been walking towards for years, and going back home to my tiny hometown to live out my days under her thumb. She'd like nothing better than to prove me wrong.

Katniss knows this. I don't need this from her right now, I'm exhausted and it irritates me that she can't see how important this is to me. I narrow my eyes and attack her back. "You know, I don't think I've ever heard you say that you didn't like being ignored. You're so good at ignoring others that I would have assumed you'd be immune to it by now," I hiss, my words cold and calculated. Her mouth drops open but she quickly recovers, fury flooding her features.

"Fuck you, Peeta."

"You know I'm right though," I say, raising an eyebrow, even though I know it's a low blow. Katniss balls her hands into fists.

"Tell you what? Why don't you go paint something based of this argument?"

"Maybe I will," I say, yanking the fridge door open and pulling out a bottle of water. I need to get back to work. Trying to talk to her when she's like this will be impossible, even if I am actually in the wrong. "It would be way more interesting to paint you being a bitch."

I turn on my heel, ready to walk away, when she speaks, forcing me to turn back.

"You're like your mother, you know that?"

I grit my teeth. Where the hell did my  _mother_ come from? "I'm not."

 _You are_  my conscience screams at me.  _You just chose your words to hurt Katniss. Just like Mom used to do to you._

"You are. In fact, she would probably be a better person to paint about considering how alike you are," she slams a drawer shut, and I brace for whatever will come out of her mouth, anger still pulsing through me like fire. "It's a wonder you haven't hit me yet."

It feels like hours but it must be only seconds. The fire is gone. She's extinguished it completely and now all I can feel is an ice cold numbness settling over me. That isn't fair. She can't mean that, can she? Does she think I'd ever lay a hand on her in that way? Is she worried that I will? I close my eyes for a second and then reopen them, images of Mom looming above me with her fist raised flashing in my mind.

Katniss' hands fly up to her mouth, her grey eyes widening in shock. I guess she didn't mean it.

My mouth opens once or twice as I struggle to answer her, to say anything. "I would never…" I whisper, staring at her. She grips the countertop, stock-still, her knuckles white. She's shaking.

There's nothing left to say, so I take my water and retreat to my studio, slamming the door behind me and turning the key in the lock so she can't follow. Releasing an angry breath, I turn to my easel and pick up my paintbrush.

* * *

My phone display says it's midnight. Six hours since our fight.

I haven't heard a single thing from Katniss. No shouting, crying, anything. Just a strange silence that doesn't suit this apartment. There's always sound. It shouldn't be this silent. Still, I don't dare go out. Not yet. I slump against the wall in exhaustion and gaze with weary eyes at the two paintings sat in front of me, still wet, just finished. I don't think I've ever worked so fast in my entire life. There was no outward emotion being projected onto these. It was inner turmoil feeding out from my veins and into the brush and onto the canvas; raw and real and painful.

Katniss was right. Mom  _is_  a good catalyst for this work.

_It's a wonder you haven't hit me yet._

Our fight replays in my mind like a broken record. My fingers flex and my head spins. Never in my life will I hurt Katniss that way, never physically, never causing that kind of damage. She is my life, my love, my girl on fire. She has to know that I'd never do anything like that to her. I've hurt her with my words instead, which I know can be just as harmful, but she can't live in a state of anxiety where she's wondering if I am ever going to lose my temper and strike her.

My heart quickens as I think back over our relationship, searching desperately for anything I did or said that could've been misconstrued as a threat, as something she should fear. I come up empty each time, but more and more exhausted. Was she scared of me? I know how it feels to fear a person you love. Even the idea of her feeling like that makes me feel physically sick. I wipe away the tears on my cheeks with the back of my hand.  _Only little boys cry, Peeta._

I'll wait an hour until my eyes aren't red. And then I'll go out and apologise for abandoning her. I'll tuck her hair behind her ear, and hold her until she understands that I have nothing but love for her. We'll re-heat the dinner she made for us and I'll try my best to make it up to her. I am  _not_ my mother. I don't hurt the people I love.

* * *

" _Fuck!"_ I grumble, clutching at the back of my neck. I fell asleep against the wall and now have cramp to add to my spinning head and aching body. The sunlight streaming in the window makes my head ache. How is it so bright? I grab my phone. It's nine thirty. How the hell did I manage to sleep for so long? And then I remember. The fight.  _Katniss!_

I jump to my feet and try to pull the door of my studio open, cursing loudly when I remember than I'd locked it. I rummage for the key and finally the hallway greets me.

"Katniss?" I call, stepping forward. "Katniss?"

No reply.

I pause and listen. It's quiet like before. Not a single sound. Dread falls heavy in my chest. I open the first door I get to, the bathroom, and find it empty and still.

"Katniss?" I call again, panic beginning to rise. I turn out of the bathroom and face the bedroom door. Perhaps after the argument she went to sleep and is still in bed, body and mind exhausted. I yank open the door and race inside, planning to hold her and beg for forgiveness, the idea of what it would be like to never wake to her morning hair and pre-coffee grumpiness again filling my mind with dread. I toss the duvet and pillows off the bed as if she could be hiding there, but the sheets are cold and empty.

I leave the bed sheets where they are and backtrack into the kitchen/diner area. It's empty and so is the living area. The dinner she made last night sits on the table, ready to be served, and so are the dishes, cutlery and wine glasses. Katniss hates to cook. She really put effort into making a nice meal that I couldn't even sit down for thirty minutes to eat it with her. I completely rejected her. She has every right to be furious with me.

I spend the next few hours cleaning the apartment from top to bottom, anticipating her return. She hates housekeeping tasks and this is the least I can do for her. I dispose of the wasted food from last night and prepare Katniss's favourite; a lamb casserole with plums which I put in the oven to slow cook during the afternoon so that it'll be ready for this evening. I find candles and our nice dishes and place them on the table. I need to show her that I care. That I appreciate her. That I'm sorry for ignoring her.

The image of her coming through the door is what keeps me going throughout the day. How will she enter our apartment? Will she be relieved that I'm not angry with her, upset (and rightly so), or scared of me? What if she ignores me? Yells at me? Will she sit down and have dinner? Will we hash everything out before anything else? How will I approach her?

If she arrives and is happy that I'm not angry, I'll sweep her into my arms and refuse to let go no matter how much she fights against me. I'll hold her and whisper my apologies and tell her I love her until she becomes sick of the word. If she's anything else, I'll keep my distance, as if she's a wild animal who could bolt at any second. That's what she really is. She's wild and even I can't tame her, not that I'd ever want to. I'll show her that I respect her. That I'll be ready when she is.

I try to figure out how I can show her that she's safe with me. If she shows any signs of fear, I'll retreat. I will not push her. I'll sleep on the couch for as long as she wants me to. I'll do whatever it takes to make her love me freely, happily, and without fear. She doesn't deserve to live in fear. I've never remembered seeing any instances where she was worried about how I'll treat her. Never seen any evidence of her shying away from me. Hell, she's never compared me to my mother in  _that_  way before. Has she relayed her fears to anyone else? To our friends? Have I sat through dinner parties under the scrutiny of people I've known for years because they think I might be abusive?

My head spins.

I have to put a stop to this. We can't live like this. She has to come back to me. I need her.

But hours pass and she doesn't return. I watch the clock, anxiety building. Six o'clock. Twenty four hours since our fight. I pick up my phone.

_Kat, I'm sorry. Where are you?_

_Please come home. I love you._

_You're right, Katniss. I've been a jerk to you for months and you were right to feel like I was ignoring you. I didn't mean to ignore you._

_I'd never hurt you. You have to know that. I love you._

_Please just tell me that you're okay._

There's conformation that she's received my texts but no indication that she's actually read them. I call and call and call her number, desperate to have something to hang onto. She never picks up though, the voicemail picking up each time. And then it just cuts off, and a polite recorded message tells me the number has been disconnected. I stare at my phone, listening to the dial tone.

I call Delly.

"Peeta! Peeta – I can't understand – slow down! Peeta,  _stop_! What do you mean she's gone?"

"We had a huge argument, Dells," I explain, pacing up and down frantically by our front door. "Like, a  _serious_  one. Not a silly one about something insignificant. She got upset because I've been a shitty boyfriend and I yelled at her and she said I was like my Mom and then I stormed off and now she's gone, Delly. I've called her and texted her but I can't tell if she's read them and now her number has been disconnected. I'm worried about her."

"Are you sure she didn't leave a note?" Delly asks, her voice growing concerned even though she's one hundred times calmer than I am.

"No she – I – I don't know!"

"Well, go look!" my friend exclaims, and I hold the phone to my ear as I search frantically around the apartment for anything from her that will give me any indication as to where she has gone.  _It's okay,_ I try to tell myself in an effort to remain calm.  _She'll be back soon and everything will be alright._  But there's nothing and I'm catapulted into full-blast panic mode. She always leaves notes on the fridge, the front door, or my studio door, since those are places she knows I'll see them. But this time there's absolutely nothing there.

"I can't find anything," I finally say to Delly, and her silence is enough for me to sense her own feelings of worry.

"Are you absolutely sure?" she asks seriously.

"I've looked  _everywhere,_ " I tell her.

"How long has she been gone?"

"I- I don't know!" I cry, tugging at my hair. I blink, thinking back to when it was midnight and I couldn't hear anything through my studio door. Was she already gone then? Did she leave as soon as I locked her out of the studio?

"Peeta, I need you to calm down and keep a clear mind, okay?" I take a deep breath and slump down the wall and onto the ground. My hands are shaking, just like Katniss did yesterday. Shaking out of fear that now she'd admitted what she'd been scared about this whole time I was going to snap and make her nightmares reality. Was she scared that her angry remark to me was going to the last straw? My stomach heaves at the thought.

"I'm worried about her, Delly. She's never done  _this_  before. Even when we'd argue she'd always leave a note to tell me where she was and when she'd be back. I didn't have to worry. She always came home to me."

I climb to my feet as Delly speaks, moving around the apartment, looking for clues for the thousandth time. "Katniss will come back, Peeta. Give her time. She'll be back before you know it."

I move into the bathroom and that's when I spot it. The first thing that makes me feel like I've been hit by a truck. Her toothbrush is missing, gone from her usual spot above the sink next to mine. I pull open the cabinet and find her deodorant and hairbrush to be gone, along with a whole bunch of other bits and pieces. Some of my stuff has been knocked down, as if she packed in a hurry.

"Her toothbrush is gone, Delly," I say quietly, fingering one of her hair ties that has been left behind. I close the cabinet and head for the bedroom. If Delly is saying anything to me, I don't hear it. I think back to my earlier thoughts. That Katniss is terrified that I'm going to hurt her like my own mother hurt me and that she's confided in friends. Despite her complaints that Delly is too sunny to be around for too long, she does like the girl. They're good friends. It seems right that she'd speak to her first. Do I bring it up? Do I tell my childhood friend about what I'm concerned about, or do I leave it alone? I bite down on my tongue and force the words out.

"I think- I think she's scared of me," I begin in a quiet voice, listening for Delly's reaction. She's silent. "I think that she asked why I hadn't hit her yet because she was angry but also because that's what she's been thinking this whole entire time. I think she thinks that one day I'm going to turn into my mom. That one day I'll beat the shit out of her just because I get angry over something stupid. And I don't want her to think that. She has to know that I'd never do that to her."

I pull open the wardrobe in our bedroom and my heart aches at the sight of the large selection of her clothes that were once hung there now gone, the hangers like skeletons on the rail. It's a similar story in the chest of drawers. Her duffle bag is missing as well. The puzzle pieces start to fall into place and each one hurts more than the other.

"Peeta?" Delly asks after a long minute of silence, and it's kind of a relief that she's still on the line.

"I'm still here," I say, and I can't even find it in me to be surprised at how detached I sound.

"You can't afford to think like that. She has no logical reason to think that. You've never hurt her like that, have you?" I frown at the tone of her voice. Is she doubting me?

"No! Never!"

"Exactly! You know and I know that you love her too much to ever hurt her physically. And if –  _if_  – she thinks that, if she's scared, you need to ask her about it. That may sound backwards but it's the only way to make sure neither of you fear the other. That's not how relationships work. When she comes back, give her space and calmly approach her about it. Don't allow anything to escalate."

"Why would she be frightened of me?" I ask, my voice small.

"We develop all kinds of fears when it's about the person we love. Although there is no threat to her, she's obviously had this idea playing on her mind and now it's built up. You need to crush that idea. Show her that you have nothing but love for her."

"I don't think I can. I don't think she trusts me anymore," I mumble, closing the wardrobe door and sitting down on the bed. The sunset behind me is streaming through the windows, illuminating the room in a soft golden glow, a rainbow of pinks and reds and oranges scattered over the sky. I stare at the sky, my hands twitching as I fight the urge to cover the windows with the curtains to stop the light from entering the room.

Delly promises that she'll try and get in contact with Katniss and tells me to keep on looking around for anything that can help me. Katniss runs to be alone when she needs peace and quiet, and I paint. But this isn't just one of her private escapes when life gets too much. This is something else entirely and I'm terrified.

The sunlight reflecting off something momentarily blinds me and I wince. And then my eyes lock on to the glinting silver ring on Katniss' nightstand and my stomach rolls. Delly's voice turns into mere buzzing in my ear as I climb to my feet.

"Delly? I've got to go," I mumble, not allowing her the time to answer when I end the call and drop the phone. This is what makes it official then. The promise ring sat on the on the nightstand on her side of the bed. My hands shake even more as I pick it up, the chain attached to it cold to touch. What does this mean? Is this it for us? It must be. This is her note to say goodbye.

Delly calls a little later, asking if I'm alright after hanging up on her, and to say that she's tried to contact Katniss but hasn't got anything but radio silence.

"I've called as many people as I know to see if they've heard or seen her, but nothing," she reports back. "I'm sorry Peeta. She'll turn up, I'm sure. You know Katniss."

"Okay, thanks Dells," I sigh, rubbing my eyes and rolling the promise ring in my hand. She loved this thing once upon a time. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I really don't know Katniss, and now she's gone. She made that decision. I just need to live with the consequences. I fought too little and too late.

* * *

She doesn't come back. The casserole burns. The bed is cold. The apartment is silent.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here's chapter eight, in Katniss' POV. Thank you for the response to this story, and thank you to louezem for handling my inability to read emails correctly!

It doesn't surprise me when the following morning, a bright and cold Wednesday, an email comes through from Peeta.

**_To: Katniss Everdeen; Johanna Mason; Annie Cresta; Finnick Odair_ **

**_From: Peeta Mellark_ **

_Until further notice, the work towards my exhibition next year has been postponed for personal reasons. Sorry for any inconveniences caused._

_-P._

The message is short, cold, and cuts straight to the point.  _Personal reasons._ He may have well written:  _Katniss Everdeen is an asshole who likes to fuck with people._ This is all because of me, and I know it. Do I feel guilty? Of course I do. Yet again I've let everyone down. This time I've made him cease work altogether, which, knowing Peeta's love of art, if huge. It's bigger than I expected. I didn't think he'd postpone the entire thing. I figured he'd tell everyone to take a few days off, maybe, but not postpone it. All of that work torn down by my own insecurities.

I don't allow myself to message him back. I told him I'd call him when I came to terms with my own feelings and I am determined to stick to that. He deserves that. His frustration towards me is understandable. How can he keep calm when I keep changing my mind? He's voiced his opinion, and all I've done is mess everything up.

One person who isn't afraid to text me is Johanna.

_Get your head out of your ass brainless and sort this shit out._

I reply in a similar tone.

_I don't need a lecture._

_And I'm trying to sort this out._

The day seems to pass way too quickly after that. I sit by my window and look out into the street with a cup of tea and blanket around my shoulders. His painting taunts me from the wall, still filling the room with colour, but reminding me of him even more. When night falls and I realise that I'm still not able to call him, I throw on a jacket and wander outside, breathing in the night air and walking further and further away from my apartment. Sometimes walking helps me think. Tonight, however, it isn't helping at all. Instead, I'm cold, emotional, and still mulling over how to word everything I want to say to Peeta without it sounding pathetic. I need to go out and let my sober thoughts turn into words with the help of some liquor.

The bright neon glow of a bar along the street catches my eye. I've never been there before, but the offers on the chalkboard propped up outside tempt me to push the heavy mahogany door open. It's dark inside, fairly quiet, and much nicer than I would've expected in this area of town, and I head straight for the bar and order their strongest drink on offer. After choking down half of the glass I rest my head my hands and take a couple of deep, calming breaths. My head is already throbbing, and it's not from the drink.

"You lost, sweetheart?" a gruff voice asks from my right. I sit up slightly and take in the man slumped two stools away. He's dishevelled; with a wrinkled shirt beneath his waistcoat, chin-length hair that could do with a wash, and stubble. I grimace. Some middle-aged dude smelling of whisky hitting on me is exactly what I need right now.

"No, I'm not." I snap, looking away from him.

"We don't usually get young ones like you coming this way," the man continues. "It was a bit of a surprise to have you bursting in here and ordering whatever  _that_ is."

"I'm not lost," I repeat, glancing at him. "I came here for a drink and peace and quiet."

"Alright then," the man says, raising his eyebrows and motioning to the bartender to fill him up again. I close my eyes and sigh.  _Think, Katniss. Think._ I don't know what's wrong with me. I know what I want to say to Peeta. I want to tell that I'm sorry. That I shouldn't have left him and no, I don't want to be friends, I want what we had back. The kisses, the soft touches when no one was looking. The laughter, the warmth, and the way he'd climb on top of me in the mornings holding a plate of pancakes if I was hungover or ill. His arm, a deadweight around me when I woke before him and would just lay there watching the light filtering through the window and reflecting off his golden curls and pale skin. Silent days spent watching old movies when it thundered outside. Day trips out of the city just because.

I can't have any of that without Peeta. Peeta is who I want. Peeta is who I need, and I'd be stupid to pretend like I didn't.  _That's what you've been doing for two years,_ I'm reminded. And that voice is right. That's exactly what's happened. I've tried to cut him out of me as if he didn't matter when he was in fact a vital part of my system.

I open my eyes again and sigh.

"Rough day?" the man asks again. "It  _is_  only Wednesday."

"Rough week," I mumble. Perhaps this guy isn't going to hit on me after all.

"Boy troubles?" Oh. So he's the father figure.

I frown. "How could you tell?"

"I know what a girl looks like when a boy has broken her heart," he shrugs, as if what he's just said is meaningless. His bloodshot eyes tell another story as he lifts his glass to his lips with a shaking hand.

"Oh."

"You wanna talk about it?" he asks. I stare at him. "What?" he asks.

"You don't look like the kind of guy who 'wants to talk about it'."

"I don't, but you're too young to be drinking like that just yet."

For a long while I say nothing, just following the grain of the wooden countertop with my finger. The man doesn't say anything though. He just sits there, lost in his own head. And then I speak. I tell him everything, about how we met, how we broke up, the things we said to each other, the two year silence. I recall how it was a job advertisement that brought us together again, that we danced around each other and pretended everything was okay.

"He didn't break my heart," I eventually say. "I broke his heart originally… and now I'm doing it again. And he's now saying that he wants to be friends but I don't want to be friends with him, I want to be with him again like we used to."

"Does he  _just_  want to be friends?"

"I don't know. Well, others have said that he's in the same position I'm in… but at one moment he's reminding me of our breakup and getting frustrated, and the next minute he's telling me he wants to work everything out," I pause for breath. "We're just a big mess. And I should be the one to clean it up after everything I said to him.

"Sounds to me like he's forgiven you, sweetheart."

"Really?" I ask.

"If what you did really hurt him enough to not want you anymore, he wouldn't be offering to work it all out," the man clears his throat. "And if you're willing to put in as much effort as he is, there's no reason why you can't."

"But what if it doesn't work out?"

"That's what you're afraid of?"

"Yes," I say quietly. Admitting it to myself already feels like a little of the weight is slipping off my shoulders.

"You have to fight for what you want. You can't wait for it to come to you, you have to work for it," he tells me. "And don't let fear rule your decision."

"What do I do?" I ask.

"You need to put that glass down, sleep on it, and then tell him how you really feel. Nothing good has ever come out of not telling someone how you feel," he smiles faintly, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Trust me on that."

"So I should just tell him?" he nods solemnly.

"From what you've said, I doubt he'd reject you."

Once again I let myself think. I push the half-empty glass away and ask for some water. I wait until I feel stable, pay my tab, and stand up to leave. I can call Peeta on the way back to my apartment. And then, tomorrow, on a fresh new day, I can start again.

"Thank you," I say to the mystery man. I place some cash on the counter and tell him to use it to buy whatever else he's drinking. Whoever he is, he's helped to clear out my head. I feel bad for being so short with him when I first got here, for making such rash assumptions about who he was and what he wanted. He seems to be wiser than his appearance suggests.

"Good luck, sweetheart," he says, raising his glass. I give him a small, hopeful smile, and nod, before turning on my heel and walking out into the night, heading for home. I pull out my phone and exhale, watching my breath spilling out into the air in front of me. Selecting Peeta's name, I hold my phone to my ear and wait for the ringtone to sound. It rings and rings and rings, but the call is never picked up. I try again. And again. Twice, three times, four times. A spark of annoyance flickers inside me, but I push it down.

"It's okay," I say out loud, staring at the time. It's ten thirty now. He's probably asleep. I should've anticipated that he wouldn't pick up. "It's fine," I tell myself, reaching my apartment building. I wait until I'm at my front door, the small bud of hope flowering in my chest giving him a chance to ring me if need be, before sending him a text.

_I'm sorry, Peeta, for telling you to leave. I'll call you tomorrow._

* * *

At ten am the next morning I call him again. There's no answer. There are no texts either. And then Jo texts me.

"Do you know why he isn't answering anyone's calls? Or emails? Or texts?" she asks.

"He won't answer me either," I tell her. "I told him I'd call him and he didn't answer last night or this morning."

"So you  _do_ have something to do with him halting the studio work!" Jo exclaims. "I knew it, but I wanted to give you benefit of the doubt. I guess I was wrong."

I scowl into the phone but ignore her jab. "We argued again when he came over my place yesterday and I told him to leave. I said I'd call. And now I can't get hold of him."

"What is it with you two and arguing?!" Jo asks, her voice getting louder in my ear. "Is it really that had for you two to make up without yelling?"

"I don't know," I say, so quietly she asks me to speak up. "Do you know where he is?"

"He hasn't spoken to anyone. Nobody can get an answer from him and I went to his apartment yesterday and he won't answer and none of us have a key. So no, I have no idea where he is."

"Well, what about the studio?" I ask, worry pooling in my gut. "You have a key, right?"

"I do, but when I went to check, it was empty," she sounds concerned, and it doesn't suit her. She sighs in the phone. I bite my lip.

"I'm worried, Katniss." Hearing her say my name like this is jarring. I'm so used to her calling me  _brainless_. Now isn't the time to comment, though. "He was in a bad place when I first met him. He drank too much and I don't want him going back that way."

I say nothing, because I know. I know what she's talking about. Although it hadn't crossed my mind until now, her fear is completely justified. When we were younger and would hang out with our friends, Peeta was always the one to drink more than everyone else. Somehow he'd convince his older brothers to buy him alcohol, since he'd never dare take something from his mother's stash. I vividly remember watching him down endless cans and then passing out and then having to guide him home because he couldn't even walk straight. His random bingeing sessions freaked me out sometimes.

His Mom is most likely the biggest culprit in creating his lax attitude to drinking. I know his father didn't drink very often – the closest I can remember seeing Mr Mellark drinking is when he'd add wine to meals and would take a sip – but Peeta's brothers were older than him and influenced the impressionable pre-teen Peeta in more ways than one. Added to his mother's un-motherly behaviour and alcoholism habits, it wasn't a surprise that he would have issues.

During college this pattern continued, to the point when at times I had to literally ban him from touching anything. For a long time he was better. He would have a few social glasses now and again, but he stayed in control. He'd assured me he was in control, and after so long, I had taken his word as the truth. He didn't drink. I never smelled alcohol on his breath and if I did, I knew about how much he had drunk. In fact, he refused to touch any alcohol unless he was with people he could trust, since he tended to drink away his feelings and being alone and drinking would only make matters worse. I hadn't even realised that he'd fallen backwards into that haze. How would I? I wasn't there.

"I'm going to go and find him, Jo," I say.

"Let me know when you do, okay?"

"Of course."

Once the phone call has ended, I rummage through my wardrobe for the duffle bag that was once filled with everything I owned in the world. Emptying the contents all over my bedroom floor, I search hurriedly. And then I find it. Still strung over a ratty piece of string after all this time, is my key to the apartment. I always kept it around my neck for safekeeping and for quick access. It was still around my neck when I left.

I pull it over my head and grab a jacket and some shoes, and race for my car. My tyres spin as I race out onto the road, squealing around the corner. It's only when I'm halfway to Peeta's that I realise what he's doing. He's ignoring everyone and blocking them out. Just like I did. This realisation bites harder against my heart than I expected it to, and I wince, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Tears stab at my eyes and I take a deep breath through my nose, and out through my mouth.

_At seventeen, Peeta Mellark is already known as being the guy who can drink you under the table. From where I'm sat across the room, I can see why people refer to him as that. He snorts at whatever Bristel is saying, clinks (well,_ clunks _) his plastic cup against hers and downs it without even grimacing. And I'm about 101% sure that it isn't just beer in there. I saw the bottles he brought to our little gathering. Straight up liquor, mostly._

_I frown, and look down at my own cup. I'm hardly even buzzed yet, but suddenly the prospect of becoming wasted isn't looking as appealing as it did several hours ago as I fought my way through another test_   _at school. I pour the liquid away into the grass and refill with some soda instead. Peeta laughs again, louder this time, and I narrow my eyes._

_"What's up your ass?" Darius asks from beside me._

_"Nothing," I scowl._

_"Come on, Everdeen, I know the beer I brought isn't that great, but it's not disgusting," he says, nudging my side. I sip my soda resolutely, staring at Peeta as he fills Bristel's_ _cup and drinks straight from the bottle in his hand. Darius must follow my line on vision because he says: "Ah, jealous of Bristel?"_

_"W-what? No!" I say. "Why would I be?"_

_"Because she's most likely sharing a bed with Peeta tonight, and you aren't?"_

_"No, Darius. It's not that," I mutter. He waits patiently for me to speak again, sensing that I'm not quite finished. "I just… how does he do it?"_

_"You want flirting tips from Peeta?"_

_"No, God," I say. "How does he drink so much and not puke his guts everywhere? How is he able to be functioning pretty much completely the next morning? How hasn't he-?"_

_"How hasn't he been admitted to rehab yet?"_

_"Yeah! How?" I exclaim. "That's straight up liquor!"_

_Darius suddenly looks sombre. He and Peeta have been friends longer than me, having been in the same wrestling club since the sixth grade. "He's used to it, I suppose."_

_"How can he be used to it? He's not even legal."_

_"His brothers are," Darius shrugs. "And his Mom isn't exactly sober."_

_He stands up and walks away then, moving to chat to someone else and leaving me to fill in the gaps. I've only met Fenton and Rye once before, when I was at a study group at the Mellark house, but Rye turned twenty one last month and Fenton is twenty two. They've looked old enough to buy drinks for much longer though, having sprouted beards at like, twelve. (Peeta's still lacking in the facial hair department, but that's much better than Mitch and Bron_ _who insist that the fuzz on their upper lips is serious facial hair that cannot under_ any  _circumstances be shaved off). Fenton and Rye always seemed to be sensible, but never close to their younger sibling, being five and four years older, respectively._

_Mrs Mellark is known to be a witch. I'm aware that she doesn't treat Peeta very well, but don't know enough to make any true assumptions. Peeta has turned up to school with black eyes and bruises plenty of times, but until last year, I had never spoken to him. For a seventeen year old to be drinking so much even if it's only once every few weeks (that I'm aware of) I can't help but wonder. What are his reasons behind it? Does he like to be drunk? Does he just want to show off? Does he have a ridiculously high tolerance level?_

_I spend the rest of the evening deep in thought, sat by myself, drinking way too much soda. Bristel leaves eventually, calling curfew, and the party begins to fade out fairly rapidly after that. Soon it's just Darius, Bron, two girls I don't know the names of, and another guy I'm fairly sure just came to sponge of everyone else, Peeta and I._

_Since I've only had half a cup of beer and am one of two of the people left that can drive, I'm left to help get everyone home. Bron takes the two girls and the weird guy home since he's heading their way, and I'm stuck with a buzzed Darius and a plastered Peeta._

_"Please don't throw up in my car," I beg from the driver's seat, watching as Darius holds Peeta upright against the backseat. I procure a plastic bag from the glove compartment and pass it back, my gaze flickering back and forth between the darkened road ahead and the_ _blo_ _nd h_ _ead beh_ _ind me. He stays pretty quiet the entire journey to Darius' house, however, and at one point I think he's fallen asleep, slumped against the cool glass of the window._

_"Fanks sooo much for givin' me a ride home, Kanisss," he slurs, and I smile despite myself._

_"That's okay. You're on my way home anyway."_

_"Yah, I know, but you didn't 'ave to," he continues. "So fanks."_

_"How are you feeling, Peeta?" I query._

_"Not bad."_

_"You should have a glass of water to drink when you get home," I advise. He doesn't look like he's going to throw up. He looks pretty stable._

_"Will do."_

_We're silent after that, and I'm almost sad when his house comes into view. His presence is comforting even if he doesn't say a thing. I park outside his house and get out to help him to the front door. He leans heavily on me and I struggle slightly with his bulky frame, but he smells good despite the alcohol seeping through his pores and I don't really mind. He stabs his key at the front door repeatedly until I take it from him and do it myself, and he heads straight for the kitchen to drink a glass of water._

_"Is your family out?" I ask, rocking on my heels slightly as he swallows down the water._

_"Yeah. Family dinner for Fen… Mom didn't want me to come," he mumbles, unexpectedly a lot more sober. "They'll be back soon."_

_"Oh," I say. (What else am I meant to say?) Peeta half smiles, half grimaces at me and sighs._

_"You wanna drink?"_

_"No, I'm okay."_

_"Good because I don't have nothing to offer you… except water… we keep that on tap," he smirks at his joke and I feel my mouth twitching into a smile. He bursts out laughing and I roll my eyes._

_"Okay, Peeta," I say. "I think you need to get some sleep. And keep drinking water. Not alcohol, alright?"_

_"Sure, sure," he says absently._

_"I'll see you Monday?" I ask._

_"I'll see you Monday," he confirms. I nod, heading for the door, and am barely over the threshold when I the sound of something smashing followed by a drunken 'fuck!'._

_"Peeta?" I call, heading back the way I came. I shouldn't have even thought of leaving. Not until he's in his bed and not choking on his own vomit. "Peeta, are you alright?" I enter the kitchen and find him trying to pick up the smashed shards of a Jack Daniels bottle with his bare hands. "No, Peeta. I'll clean that up," I say, stepping towards him and hauling him to his feet and towards the kitchen table. He plops down into a chair and groans, resting his head on his forearms._

_"Mom's gonna kill me," he says as I wrap the shards in newspaper and mop up the spilt drink. "She told me I wasn't allowed to open her cabinet and she's gonna be so mad that I broke her bottle."_

_"She won't be mad," I say, wiping the floor with a wet rag and checking for missed pieces of glass._

_"She will, Katniss. She'll be real mad," Peeta's words shake me, so I stay silent and offer him a glass of water instead. Once the mess has been cleared up, I close the open cabinet the JD bottle came from. It's stocked with endless bottles, some of which I can't identify._

_"You weren't going to drink that, were you?" I ask._

_"I was feelin'," he grumbles._

_"Feeling what? If you're gonna be sick-"_

_"Nooo, Katniss. I was just feelin'. And I was still thirsty."_

_"Then drink water." I say, pouring him another glass and leaving it in front of him._

_I tell him to drink the entire cup and not to move from his seat as I run out and grab my phone from my car, lock it up, and return to Peeta. I drag him to the living room and sit him down on the couch with a bucket in case he throws up, turn on the television, and text my mother to let her know that I'll be a little later home than anticipated. For the next hour I fight my own need to sleep and keep Peeta alert. He watches the cartoons on the television screen with bloodshot eyes and a dazed expression, and drifts off once or twice, and I have to shake him awake. He apologises for making me stay up so late, and offers to make cookies as thanks. I assure him that baking can wait until he's sober. He tugs on my braid and says he wishes he had hair as long as mine with an almost childish grin._

_It's nearing one a.m. when there's the sound of a car parking outside the house. I sit up and hand Peeta the remote control, and have just walked into the foyer of his house when Mr Mellark enters through the front door._

_"Mr Mellark-"_

_"Miss Everdeen-"_

_I'm fully aware as to how this must look. Mr Mellark comes home after his son has been drinking, and now there's a girl in the foyer of his house. I smooth down my hair from where Peeta messed with it and clear my throat, blushing even though I have nothing to blush about._

_"I gave Peeta a ride home," I explain myself. "And he's had a bit too much to drink so I stayed with him to make sure he was alright."_

_"Oh, well, thank you," the baker says softly. There's noise outside and he glances behind him briefly. It must be his wife and two sons. I twist my hands together nervously._

_"He accidentally dropped a bottle but I've cleared it up. I've made him drink some water. He's sat on the couch right now watching cartoons."_

_"Thank you for taking care of him," Mr Mellark says. "I'm sorry you had to stay so late._ _You must be tired."_

_"I'm okay," I shrug. I have a feeling Peeta needs his Dad to deal with him, and not his mother or siblings. "I can sleep in tomorrow."_

_"Well, thanks again." Mr Mellark runs a hand through his hair and looks a little awkward._

_"It's fine," I say, pulling my keys from my pocket and moving towards the door. "I hope you had a nice evening. Tell Peeta I hope he's hungover tomorrow."_

_"I'll make sure," Mr Mellark chuckles, and I see where Peeta gets his smile from. "Good night, Miss Everdeen."_

_"Good night, Mr Mellark," I say in return, before ducking past him and fleeing into the night. I hear Rye shout my name but I don't stop. I don't want to deal with any of them right now._

My body must be on autopilot, because I find myself outside Peeta's apartment without recalling parking outside and entering the elevator. Thankfully my key still works, and I push open his door and dart inside. There's a stillness about the place that makes me uneasy. The kitchen is empty, as is the living room, his bedroom, the bathroom. The studio door is shut, and a glimmer of hope sparks in my chest. Rushing forward, I twist the doorknob ready to find Peeta and fling my arms around him and never let go… and when I push it open, the smell of paints and chalk and fixative sprays relaxes me immediately.

It's empty.

The walls are covered in paint splashes and, not unlike the storage room at the main studio, there are canvases stacked everywhere. Some are covered, some are blank, but the sheer number is still surprising. I step further into the room, deflated that he isn't there. I don't turn and leave, though, because strewn over the floor in a careless fashion are portraits of me. I recognise 90% of these ones. I can tell you when and where these were painted. I can tell you what they were based off. Yet every single one of them is mutilated by a thick band of red paint over my face, over my eyes, in a cross over the entire canvas, branding me with Peeta's version of a scarlet letter. Why burn my image when you can cross it out? I stumble slightly, unexpected tears stinging in my eyes. My fingers trace over the paint and come away dry. They mustn't have been done recently… at least not today, or my skin would be stained a vibrant crimson.

Still, the statement is there. And it hurts. I stand and back away from the room, closing the door and moving silently through the apartment. I lock the door. I can pretend I was never even there.

* * *

The ride up to Twelve takes forever, it seems. I'm nervous and jittery by the time the doors slide open and reveal the right floor and almost fall flat on my face in my haste to get to the studio. The door is again locked and I run my hands through my hair in exasperation. I should've asked Jo for her key.  _Damn it._

"Peeta?" I call, hammering on the frosted glass. "Peeta? Open the damn door!" I wait, squinting through the glass for movement on the other side. There's nothing. I knock again and call his name. This same process continues for a good five minutes before I threaten to smash the door down.

"Peeta! I know you're in there!" I yell, wiggling the doorknob. There's a flash of movement as someone passes by the door at the end of the foyer corridor and I wait. "Peeta!" The figure appears again and gets bigger and bigger and then there's the sound of the deadbolt sliding and the key turning and then the door is being pulled open and he's there. Standing in a halo of light. I practically fall into him, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him close to me, relief flooding through me.

"Oh my God," I breathe into his neck. "I was looking for you and you wouldn't answer anyone and we were so worried about you!"

"Katniss…" he croaks, and then I smell it – the alcohol on his skin. I move away and look at him. His clothes are rumpled, his hair sticking up in all directions, and his jaw is studded with enough stubble to show that he hasn't shaved. The bags under his eyes are purple. I think back to seventeen year old Peeta watching cartoons.  _I caused this._

"It's okay," I murmur, taking the key from him and locking the door again once I'm inside.

"I'm sorry for ignoring you…" he says sadly. "I shouldn't have ignored you Katniss."

"Don't worry about it," I say, stopping him from going any further and pushing him towards the bedroom he showed me when I first got here. And it doesn't matter. At least, not now. Not in the state that he's in. Right now I'm just glad he's breathing. His body is compliant and his movements are slow when I strip him of his shirt, pull back the covers, and make him lay down. I silently move to the kitchen and pour him a glass of water and ignore the bottles strewn over the countertops.  _Not again._ Back in the bedroom, he gulps down the water and tries to talk to me, his expression earnest, but I tell him that he needs to sleep first and then we'll talk. He grabs my hand when I tuck the duvet over his shoulder.

_I'm_ the one who needs to do the talking. He doesn't owe me any explanation for anything anymore. I'm the one who told him to leave when he got frustrated. I'm the one who needs to tell him the truth about how I feel. And I can't shy away from that responsibility any longer. It's now or never. And, like the man at the bar said, I can't not fight for what I want. It'll slip away if I don't catch it now and hold on tight.

"Stay, Katniss. Please," he murmurs, looking up at me with bleary eyes. I pull off my shoes and jacket and climb in beside him hugging him tight to me, feeling his heart flutter in his chest and his breath against my neck.

"Always," I say, but he's already asleep. I pull my phone out and pull up Johanna's name.

_He's okay. I'm going to make everything okay._

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here's chapter nine! Thank you louezem for betaing for me, I hope we continue to work on whatever future nonsense I come up with ;)

When I wake, it's with the side of my face pressed against a solid chest. It's with Peeta's breath ruffling my hair and one of his arms around my waist while the other is flung out over the mattress. My legs are tangled with his and my arms hold tightly onto him like he's a lifeline. And I've had the best night's sleep I can remember having in a long time.

I'm selfish, and allow myself a few minutes to just relax. I don't move from where I'm half on top of Peeta's sleeping form, instead tracing my fingers over his skin and listening to his heartbeat. Just lying with him feels amazing. His hand has found its way underneath the hem of my shirt and is pressed flat against the small of my back, his skin searing mine. Closing my eyes again, I sigh, and let myself have this moment until Peeta wakes.

Eventually he begins to stir, shifting on the pillow and sighing. The hand on my back flexes and then releases, but he doesn't move it. I try to lie still, pretending I'm still asleep as he reaches for my cell phone and turns it on, checking the time and then putting it back down. I'm curious as to what he's going to do next. He can probably tell that I'm awake. I've never been good at faking being asleep. My eyelids always twitch too much and I'm too tense.

"Katniss?" he asks, his voice gravelly, thick with sleep. I bite my lip and scrunch my eyes shut. Time to face the day and everything it will bring. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah," I mumble, now embarrassed. Not that he's caught me lying on him, but that I'm the one who decided to stay. "Sorry," I say, struggling for an excuse. "Didn't want to wake you by moving."

"No, it's alright."

"Okay," I say, moving off him and grabbing my phone. There's one text from Johanna.

_For real this time. Please._

I place the phone back on the nightstand, choosing not to reply. Not yet anyway. Not until this is ironed out for once and for all.

Peeta sits up and drags his hand through his hair in an effort to make it less tangled, but it just makes him look like a blonde Jimmy Neutron. He looks up at me, a glimmer of a smile playing on his lips, but his eyes hold confusion and hurt and sorrow. I understand why he's hurt. It's because of me. Looking down at my hands, which are twisting nervously in my lap, I try to figure out how to start. Peeta yawns, scrubbing at his face before standing and grabbing the shirt I pulled off him last night and pulling it on. He looks like a mess. I feel like a mess, both inside and out.

"I need to take a shower," he announces, finally breaking this increasingly tense silence. "And then… and then we can talk."

"Okay," I nod, feeling in need of a shower myself. That can wait. Peeta disappears out of the room, leaving me sitting on the bed. The studio is so quiet, and the sound of the bathroom door shutting seems to reverberate through the place. Letting out a breath, I braid my hair and set about tidying the bed. It clearly isn't used very often, since the sheets still have the faint scent of fabric softener woven through them, but they also smell slightly musty. There's a slight hint of Peeta on his side of the bed, and my shampoo on my pillow. I tuck the sheets down and pull them taunt, smoothing it out and making it look presentable, before picking up my shoes and jacket and placing them in the foyer.

Heading into the kitchen, I'm met with the bottles I left on the counters last night. It's like a war zone; Peeta is the wounded soldier and the bottles are the bullets, puncturing him and draining the life from his body. Angry, my skin tingling when I pick the glass up like it's on fire, I throw the bottles into the trash, listening to them clinking against each other. The kitchen looks much better now they're gone. I move over to the little alcove at the end of the kitchen and yank open the curtains, letting morning light stream into the room. I push the window open as well, letting in some fresh air and some noise from outside into the quiet studio.

Peeta is still in the shower, so I pour myself a glass of water and set about making something to eat. I'm famished from all the running around I did yesterday, and I imagine Peeta hasn't ingested anything but alcohol in the past 24 hours. There isn't much to eat here, but I do find some bread in one of the cupboards and I decide on something simple. Something familiar. Buttered toast, slices upon slices of it on a plate. By the time Peeta emerges, looking fresher and more awake with a cloud of steam following him, I've eaten a third of it in an effort to settle my nervous stomach.

"Sit down. Eat," I order, pushing the plate down the island towards him. He looks at me with an odd expression for a moment, and I raise my eyebrow, challenging him to refuse. Finally he acquiesces, sitting and snatching a piece of toast. We eat quietly, though I think I spend more time just watching him than anything else. He doesn't look too bad, but whatever is under the surface is obviously going to crack through eventually. I need to be there for it and not let him fight by himself.

He's clearly still exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes dulling the bright blue I've always been so fond of. He slouches in his seat with a curved spine, and he keeps squeezing his eyes shut occasionally and taking deep breathes through his nose. I wonder how hungover he is, or if he's actually still drunk. He drums his fingers on the countertop as he chews and drinks glasses of water. Something is on his mind. I wait to see if he brings it up himself or if he's going to-

"I'm assuming you saw the paintings," he says suddenly. I raise my eyebrows. That's what's occupying his mind? "In my apartment."

"I did."

"I didn't mean for you to see them," he mumbles, not meeting my gaze. "It was a moment of weakness and stupidity and-"

"Anger?"

"Exactly. I regret it. I really loved those portraits."

"It's fine," I shrug. "I deserved it."

"No you didn't. I thought you did and I reacted in the only way I knew how. I smashed glasses and plates as well. Next door knocked on the door to make sure I wasn't being robbed or something."

"Peeta. It's okay, really. You don't need to feel bad," I assure him. He sighs, dropping his crust onto the plate. I try again, focusing on him and not on past actions, since I'm sure it'll only make him feel worse. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"No, Peeta. How do you really feel? An honest answer, not the standard one."

His eyes flicker up to meet mine momentarily, before looking down at the glass of water I poured him.

"Pretty shit, actually. I don't know what you're going to say or what this is going to mean for us," he gulps down the rest of the water and moves away to put our empty dishes in the sink, busying himself. "You want to go on the roof? Sometimes it helps. To clear my head, I mean."

I just nod, following him up the stairwell to where Finnick and I had photos taken for Capitol Fashion. We sit right on the edge of the building, hanging on to the safety rail and looking out over the city.

"This view is so much better than mine," I comment lightly. "I bet it's beautiful at night."

"It's best at dawn and dusk. The sky… it's so beautiful. And the sun sets between the buildings and spills out over the ground," Peeta smiles faintly, swinging his foot slightly. I smile to myself and stare forward, watching a plane in the distance soaring past through the clouds.

"Are you hungover?"

"A little," he says quietly, ashamed.

"How much did you drink?"

"Too much," he mutters, obviously not wanting to discuss this. "After your place… I went straight to the liquor store and just bought the first thing I could get my hands on. And then I couldn't stop. I can't believe I made it back to my place in one piece."

"Wait, you drove home drunk?!" I exclaim, gaping at him. He's indifferent, uncaring at how much danger he's put himself in. This only makes me more upset. The Peeta I know doesn't do this.

"I wasn't drunk, just tipsy."

"You could've gotten yourself killed!" I cry, furious that he's allowed himself to be so reckless. Even as a teen he refused to drink and drive. He may have been wasted, but he still had enough sense in him to not get behind the wheel. "Or arrested!"

"Who else could I have called?" he asks bitterly.

"Literally anyone, Peeta. Anyone at all. Even a fucking cab."

"No one would've come for me!" he snaps, and I know that he's not talking about a cab. Does he honestly believe that no one would've helped him if he called? Johanna, Thom, Annie, Finnick. Even I would've come for him if it meant stopping him from being so dangerous. That argument would've meant nothing. I would never let it stop me from helping him when he was in need.

"Anyone would come and take you to your place. Anyone. Stop acting like you don't have people who care about you!"

"Whatever, Katniss."

"No, not 'whatever'," I growl, pushing him slightly and forcing him to look in my direction. He needs to see how seriously mad I am at him right now. "You aren't going to slip back into what your mother caused, okay? You've moved on from that."

He laughs humorously. "Clearly I haven't."

"This is just a little bump in the road," I tell him. "You're stronger than this, Peeta. I've seen how strong you are and I know this isn't anything you can't get over."

"That's the just the thing, I don't think I am," he says, sounding broken. "I'm not strong."

"What's brought this on?" I ask, already afraid of the answer.

"My mom called," he says, as if he still can't believe it. I'm taken aback. Peeta hasn't spoken to his mother for years, though he was usually pretty good with his dad. And the idea that she would be the one to call him up is almost laughable.

"When did this happen?" I ask, confused.

"Last night. Just after I got back from the… uh… liquor store."

"What did she want?"

"Fenton's getting married," he says, picking at his pants. "She wanted to know, and I quote, if I was 'able to pull myself away from my slutty girlfriend and stupid 'art' project and actually do something worthwhile for once in my pathetic life.'"

"She thinks we're still dating?"

Peeta shrugs. "That's what happens when you completely check out of your son's life."

"Are you gonna go?"

"Of course. He's my brother. We may not have much in common except for our genes, but he's still my brother. I owe it to him, right?"

I shake my head. "You don't owe him anything."

"It's not until next year. The wedding. I guess I'll tell you then if I want to go."

"That's okay," I say, hope bubbling up in my chest at his offhand suggestion that we'll be at least talking in a year's time. That's a good sign.

"I think she could tell that I was drunk when I answered her call."

"Were you?"

"Yes. She only exacerbates it."

"I can't imagine I did anything particularly helpful either."

"Not really, no. But I'm the one who's losing my temper," he sighs. "That's the one thing I got from Mom. Her temper."

"You're able to control it, though. Unlike her."

"Not when I'm around you. I have a very high tolerance level for stuff making me mad after dealing with her for so long… but you're one of the few things that can frustrate me. I don't know why."

"No, I get it," I nod, pulling a piece of loose hair from my mouth from where the wind has blown it around. "You always made me… make me, actually, get really exasperated. I guess we rile each other up."

"How pleasant."

"Hey," I say, shoving his arm. "That's not necessarily a bad thing. I think it's good actually, because we complement each other. Other guys… the ones before you… they got just as pissed as I did, but in a different way. Too much fire, I think."

"So I'm your fire extinguisher?" Peeta gives a small laugh.

"No, no. You're like… a gentle breeze. Keeping me going without turning me into an inferno."

"Okay." Peeta nods, seemingly agreeing with my analogy.

"I met a guy," I begin after another long silence, and notice how Peeta stiffens beside me, his posture changing into something defensive and… hostile?

"Right…"

"Not like that," I tell him. "He was old enough to be my dad. Last night after you left, I went for a walk and I ended up in this bar and he was just sat there and asked me if I was having a rough day, and then we started talking."

"About what?"

"About us, to be honest. In vague terms, but he gave me some pretty sound advice. He said that I can't wait for what I want to come to me. That I have to work for it and not be scared."

Peeta stares stoically ahead. "And what do you want?"

I take a deep, breath in the hopes of calming my nerves. This is it. This is when I really tell him how I feel and pray to God that he agrees. If he rejects me now, I don't know what I'll do. Would I be allowed back to work with him again? Would we ever speak? Is what I'm about to let spew out of my mouth like a tsunami wave going to sweep us off our feet and put us on a path of destruction before finally receding and leaving us to clean up the damage? Or will it wreck us and then give us a new, clearer path?

"You said that you wanted us to be friends… but I don't want that."

"What do you mean?" he asks, his brow knitting together. "I thought you agreed with me!"

"I did – I do – well, no. I don't want to be just your friend. I want more. I want there to be an  _us_ again. I miss what we had, Peeta. And I was an idiot to just yell at you when you were working on your future and leave. That was selfish."

"You were right, though. I had abandoned you." He looked upset.

"I don't care about that. You've apologised enough," I tell him, needing him to not speak so I can let my train of thought be an uninterrupted clear stream of what is bottled up in my head.

"I really haven't, Katniss."

"Yes, you have. You were always the one who called ceasefire when we fought. I always dragged everything out even when I knew I was in the wrong. So, please. Let me just speak before saying anything else."

"Go ahead."

I brace my hands on my knees, close my eyes, and exhale. Nothing good has ever come out of not telling someone how you feel. The man was right, and by the way he said it, he had experience in that area of life. Maybe not saying anything about how I truly feel would be better for Peeta in the long run, but I'd have to live my life keeping my feelings under lock and key. And we've all witnessed how that turns out.

"I don't want to talk about our breakup anymore," I begin. This is a good starting point. "We've talked too much about that. We should talk about now," I pause, waiting for my next sentence to form.

"We shouldn't have kissed. I don't know who initiated it, but I didn't stop it, and I'm sorry. It just felt so good even though I knew it was wrong," I blush a little at this, and refuse to look Peeta's way. "I shouldn't have ignored your texts and calls the other night. I shouldn't have run away again. That was just me going around in circles because I was scared and angry and upset that you made me feel like this again and that I couldn't express myself without causing a disaster."

I take another deep breath.

"I knew the other night I didn't just want to be your friend and I was too scared to say so. But I know and you know that if there was ever to be an  _us_  again, we need to build up to that and if it happens, it happens," my teeth tug at my bottom lip nervously. It feels weird to be speaking so much, especially about my emotions. I'm not used to it. Still, I march on. No going back now.

"I missed you so much. And I never told you how much I loved you and then it was over. And I did love you… I do love you— I don't think I really stopped. And it's okay if you don't feel the same way but I just needed to say it."

After that, it's just quiet. I can hear my loud breathing after speaking so rapidly, and I lick my lips. Peeta needs to say something. Anything. I'd appreciate it even if he just told me his grocery list or commented on the weather. Anything to drown out the sound of my heartbeat. My legs twitch and I have to force myself to fight the urge to run away, or, better, to throw myself of the edge of the building.

"I can tell you're trying not to bolt," Peeta says eventually, his voice soft and gentle, the complete opposite to his shimmering blue eyes which were dark and intense. "You're jiggling your right foot. You only do that when you want to escape an awkward situation."

My shoulders slump with both relief and panic. "W-what about my left?" I ask, looking down at the leg that isn't bouncing.

"That's when you're bored out of your mind."

"True," I smile, looking away.

"You mean what you said?" he queries, and my heart leaps. "All of it?"

"Yes."

He takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his face. "I don't think I've ever stopped loving you either. Even when I was so angry with you I still wanted you," he admits. I bite down on the inside of my mouth to stop a smile forming. "But it isn't the same, is it?"

"No." I shake my head. "If we want to try, we need to take it one step at a time. Get to know each other again. And not rush anything."

"Take it day by day." Peeta says.

I pluck up the courage to ask the dreaded question. It's that little niggling part of me that's nothing but insecure.

"Do you want to try?"

Peeta nods slowly. "I do."

"And if it doesn't work out?"

"If we really want it work out, deep down, it will," he tells me, and it sounds like a promise. Our hands inch a little closer over the concrete ledge, and I'm first to make contact. I brush my finger tip over the back of his hand, and then he takes mine and squeezes it. It's a sign of reassurance. We're in this together.

* * *

The day is calm after that. Peeta locks up the studio and we head back to his apartment. We talk honestly and don't allow ourselves to fall into the mistake of arguing when really we're on the same side. It's a muddled day with no set routine taking place. Peeta bakes while I sit around and chat about anything. And I don't get bored. I don't get bored of talking about topics that are usually considered small talk. While the bread rolls are in the oven baking, we stand side by side, not touching, just watching the storm clouds forming on the horizon. Peeta slices the bread when it's still piping hot and we cover it in butter and eat it in front of the television, burning our tongues but not caring.

We watch reruns of shows that we know inside out and laugh at all the jokes together. Peeta orders takeout when it starts to get dark, and we eat listening to the rain hammering against the windows. I feel a lot calmer than I have in a long time but suddenly its 9 o'clock and I decide I need to leave.

"I feel like I haven't showered in a year," I say, hyperaware of the greasy sheen my hair is currently holding. "And I think we need time on our own. A breather, you know?"

"Today has been kind of heavy."

I nod, pulling on my shoes and jacket which are still in the foyer and Peeta opens the door for me. I don't move to hug him or kiss his cheek goodbye, and neither does he. It's a solid starting point now that we're on the same page. I step out into the corridor, wincing under the harsh lighting.

"You'll be okay, won't you?" I ask.

"There are currently no alcoholic beverages in the apartment," he says, amusement sparkling in his eyes despite how serious I am. I must look annoyed, because he backtracks, hastily, becoming solemn. "I'm serious, Katniss. I'll be okay."

"Johanna told me how bad you got when you two first met. And I don't want you to be like that again. You're more than whatever you mother tells you, Peeta. If you need to talk, call someone."

"I will."

"You swear?"

"I swear."

"Good. You should text Jo, Annie, and Finn. Let them know you're alright," I tell him, picking a loose thread from his shirt and giving him a soft smile. "They're worried sick."

"I can imagine."

"Jo will probably yell at you."

"I'm expecting that."

"Text me before you go to sleep? Let me know you're okay."

"Stop babying me, Everdeen. Go home and shower," Peeta says, smiling gently. I roll my eyes, tell him goodnight, and walk away down the corridor. He waves at me just before I step into the elevator, and I only let my smile drop from my face once the silver doors have slid shut and I'm beginning to travel back to the ground. Exhaustion takes over my body. Today has been taxing, both mentally and physically.

I lean against the mirrored walls and close my eyes for the journey down, stagger to my car, and fight my need to sleep all the way home. My whole body aches but it's a good ache; it's the ache that tells me I've released a lot of tension from my mind and done what was needed to be done. It's an ache that makes me smile. An ache that makes me tingle with excitement. Peeta said he never stopped loving me and that he is open to us trying again, and that's the best result possible.

* * *

Our first official 'date' isn't even date. At least, we didn't organise it to be, but Finnick, Annie, Johanna and Thom suddenly all had things come up that meant they unfortunately couldn't come. So, two and a half weeks later, Peeta and I find ourselves in an upmarket restaurant in the city, feeling awkward but secretly pleased that it's just the two of us tonight. We order some wine, breadsticks, and taste each other's meals, and just talk. It's nice. It's like rediscovering Peeta again, listening to his stories about prior art projects, about meeting Jo in Thailand.

"I was pretty sure she was ready to kick me in the balls," he laughs. "The look on her face was the fiercest 'look at me and I'll castrate you' glare I'd ever seen, and when she came up to me I feared for my life for a second."

He talks about meeting Annie and Finnick as well, and how their relationship flourished in front of his very eyes.

"I was taking photos for a small circulation magazine and Finn was there. Everyone – men and women – pretty much fell at his feet. At first I thought he was a dick, but then we actually got talking at a launch party and he was a cool guy, and I knew Annie from stuff a few months prior, and they seemed like a great potential couple," he smiles fondly at the memory in his head. "And I had this big subtle plan to get them to meet and play matchmaker, but they figured it all out for themselves."

"They seem pretty in love with each other," I comment.

"Oh, they are. Finnick toned down his Lothario side because of Annie. None of us ever expected him to fall so hard."

And although my story for the past two years is nowhere near as interesting as Peeta's, he still listens with rapt attention. I tell him about Sae and Leevy, about Cray and the inhabitants of apartment D6. I tell him about my solitary trips to the national park, and about people who frequented the diner.

His tales of trips to exotic locations, after parties and after  _after_  parties, and vibrant cultural experiences are much more interesting. Admittedly, I do start to zone out when he begins a long spiel about his first time using a new type of acrylic paint, but it's all for a good reason. I like watching his face as he speaks, the emotions flashing across it as quick as lighting. His hand gestures are few and far between, but meaningful, helping the story along.

I relax back in my seat, kicking my legs out in front of me under the table and my feet make contact with his. He falters for half a second before continuing to speak, and I brush my foot against his ankle once more, testing the waters. His neck has begun to turn red and he's momentarily forgotten what he's saying, though he gallantly ignores my foot and carries on speaking. The way his lips turn up at the end make me feel warm on the inside however. He's noticed and doesn't mind, but it's made him flustered. It feels like a small victory. A small progression in what should be the right direction.

We settle the bill and leave, stepping out into the biting chill of the night. Peeta takes my hand to pull me out of the way of someone on a bike and doesn't let go until we reach my apartment.

I feel like a nervous teenager all over again when we're standing outside my place. It's as if I'm on a first date and neither of us are sure as to if we're going to hug it out, exchange a kiss on the cheek, or just awkwardly nod and smile at each other until one of us leaves to put ourselves out of our own misery.

"I had a really nice time tonight," Peeta says, looking up from our joined hands to look me in the eye. I smile at him, warmth bubbling up inside me.

"So did I," I tell him, squeezing his hand.

"So I can see you again?"

"I'll see what my father says first," I laugh, and he chuckles too, helping to break the tension that's enveloped us. I freeze when he reaches a hand forward, but he just tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, his hand lightly caressing the side of my face. I lean into his touch, closing my eyes, and his other hand twists in mine. When I reopen my eyes, his pupils have dilated. I bite my lip.

He leans it and kisses me. This time we're sure of which us initiates it, and I'm not sorry for kissing him back.

* * *

Of course, not everything is sunshine and daisies.

A month after our final argument, he calls me at 4:58 in the morning, and begins babbling into my ear before I've even said hello. I blink rapidly, still half-asleep, and tell him to repeat himself.

I'd chosen to stay home that night, as I had a cold that wasn't allowing me to do much else but sleep, and Peeta had reluctantly gone to a gallery opening with Johanna and Thom without me.

"I bumped into a school friend at the opening," he says, sounding panicked. I sit upright, the light of my phone too bright in the pitch black room and making my head spin. "Cato Mathews, you remember him?"

And boy, do I. He was a brute of a boy, with hair so pale it was almost white, and eyes the colour of ice. This ice must have seeped into his bloodstream and into his heart as well because I can clearly recall him being the kid who cut up worms and pulled the wings off butterflies during recess at school. He then progressed to trying to microwave his sister's cat, and then moved onto humans when he got banned from being near animals by the local authorities. He didn't microwave humans, but he was a cruel bully from the four grade. He pulled hair, tripped people, and knocked their books to the ground. And then he actually began to fight people for no reason for no other reason but going on a power trip.

So yes. I do remember him.

"I remember," I say to Peeta. "Why? What happened?"

"He was acting like we were real close in high school and then he started flirting with Jo," he gasps out. "And then he called her names because he didn't believe that she and Thom were together and Thom had to reign her in before she ripped him a new one and then he left with his cronies and everything was fine and then Thom and Jo left and I started to walk home because it was only a few blocks away and he just appeared and started harassing me and said that I didn't want to talk to him and he started asking if my mom was still hitting me and he started pushing me. I got mad and I panicked and punched him and he punched me harder and then some strangers pulled us apart and I just walked away but I hit him Katniss. I had had something to drink, but not enough to make me like that. Doesn't that make me just as bad?"

I'm silent for a few seconds, still reeling from the huge, unrelenting passage Peeta has just unloaded on me. I can hear him breathing heavily.

"Katniss?" he asks, his voice small.

"I'm here."

"I went back to my place and I so very nearly drank the rest of the vodka I had."

"Did you?"

"No. I poured it away and had some fruit juice instead."

"And has this been keeping you awake?"

"Yes."

"Peeta, Cato provoked you. He was asking to be punched. He deserves to be punched by all the people whose lives he made hell. And after everything he said about you and Jo, you shouldn't feel bad," I close my eyes, thinking about how Cato used to be in high school, the disgusting things he'd say to me, even when I told him to back off because I wasn't interested. "I'd have done the same thing and broken my hand."

He releases a breath, the sound anxious and broken. "But that's what my mom always said when she lashed out. That she was provoked. And I don't want to be like her."

"You're nothing like her. You never will be. And although violence is never the answer, it sure as hell is understandable sometimes."

"But what-"

"Please, listen to what I'm saying. You're nothing like your mother. Peeta, you're a strong person who defended his friends and himself and didn't let it go too far. You've seen that punching Cato was wrong, but it's not wrong in the sense that it wasn't totally unjustified."

"Okay," he breathes.

"How are you then? After Cato punched you?"

"I'll have bruise tomorrow morning-"

"This morning," I correct him. I sniffed and reached for a tissue.

"Oh, shit. Yeah. I'm sorry. You're not well, and here I am calling you at 5am, I shouldn't have woken you."

"Hey, I told you to."

"I know… but I can tell that you're struggling to stay awake. I'm a selfish ass."

"It's okay, honestly."

"I'm sorry. I haven't even asked if you're feeling better."

"It's just a cold, I'm okay." I smile. "Are you feeling okay now?"

"Much better," he says. I smile into the darkness. "Thanks."

"That's okay."

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?" he asks.

"Of course."

"Thanks for listening to me."

"You're worth listening to. Don't forget that."

"Okay. I'll come over in the morning and make you pancakes."

I flop back down on my bed. "That would be lovely. I'll seen you soon. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

* * *

A month passes before we return to Peeta's exhibition work. Everything goes seamlessly – including the nude shots.

Today I feel strangely disconnected from everything. Not in a bad way, but in a way of acceptance. I feel confident about what lies ahead. I'm not afraid. Technically, I know what to expect but the actual act of standing in front of Peeta's camera naked is something I will learn about as it happens.

Annie does hair and makeup and promptly leaves, citing a date with Finn. It's a group of three. The model, the photographer, and the director. Jo makes us all do shots before we get going, turns up the music, and then we begin. It's weirdly freeing to remove the silky kimono and just be there, naked, in front of two people I've come to know as some of my best friends. I'm in my own head for the most, following instructions with ease now that I'm used to what it is exactly Jo means by ' _to the left! No! To the_ left _left!'_

A kaleidoscope of lights is shone onto me, there's a smoke machine going, and a heater to my right stopping me from freezing to death. And then, before I know it, Peeta has called the last shot a success. I pull on my kimono and stand beside him and Jo to look at the pictures. Looking at the pictures in Capitol Fashion is a piece of cake now. But looking at me like this is too embarrassing. I'm assured they're perfect, but I run and put on a heavy sweater and jeans and revel in the feeling of knowing that what I feared from the very start is over.

And just like that, my work is done. I'm unemployed, again.

With Peeta's help, I chose to not go back to college, but to do a separate course instead that was more flexible. I'm working at a laboratory on the east side of the city, getting paid to dissect animals and take pictures of them for reports and books. (Peeta jokingly says that he's the reason I was chosen to take photos of frog guts. That without him I never would've known how to use a camera properly).

It takes months, but we get back on track. Our past relationship hasn't and will not be swept under the carpet. It is a constant reminder that we need to work together but that's a good thing. We're stronger now.

I'm still living in my crappy apartment, but I'm so much happier than I was at the start of the year. I visit Leevy as much as possible, even babysitting for her a few times when she goes on dates, and for the first time since my mother's death, I'm content. I have friends that are like my family, a job I enjoy, a brighter future, and Peeta. What he is to me, I don't know. We haven't discussed it properly yet.

One night, on the drive back to my apartment after what has to be a date by now, I bite the bullet once again and ask him what I've been burning to know.

"What are we?" I say, gazing at the festive displays in shop windows as we drive past.

"Homo sapiens," Peeta replies. I turn in my seat and punch him on the arm.

"I'm serious, asshole."

"Alright, alright," he chuckles, before turning solemn. "I'd like us to be whatever we want to be."

"Which is…?"

"Boyfriend? And girlfriend?" he asks hesitantly.

"Don't sound too enthusiastic," I say dryly, even though inside I'm freaking out and insanely happy at the same time. Peeta takes my hand, seemingly noticing my inner turmoil.

"Are we? Have we reached that point again?" he weaves our fingers together, his thumb stroking the back of my hand.

"Yes," I say with certainty. My heart skips a beat.  _This is real._

Peeta glances at me, the emotion on his face raw. I was unprepared for how emotional this would be, but at the same time I'm feeling strong. It's just another step to take, and I'm not scared. I can do this.  _We_  can do this.

"Just promise me you won't ever run away again. Promise me you'll stay, and I promise I'll always be by your side as well." His voice shakes with the tiniest hint of vulnerability, that he's clearly trying to hide, but I hear it.

"Always," I tell him, and squeeze the hand holding mine reassuringly.

"I really like the sound of that," he says, kissing my hand, and nothing can stop the feeling that blossoms through my chest.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Chapter 10! Thank you louezem for betaing, I hope this doesn't cause you *too* much stress ;) Two more chapters to go, folks!

After that it's bliss. (90% of the time, at least).

We're still relearning each other, trying to map each other out again. I actually like it. We aren't the same people we were two years ago. He's still everything I remembered in his core, but everything else has become better. It feels good to go back and rediscover Peeta and everything about him that I never erased from my memory but simply stored for safekeeping. Things like how he takes his tea and getting used to sleeping with the windows open even in winter after two years with them firmly closed against the outside, just because he can't sleep in a closed room. We are different, but it's good. The people we were didn't appreciate each other enough. We were children. We're still young and sometimes scared for the future and the challenges it will bring, but eager to move forward together.

My Dad would've said we tried to run before we could walk, and that's why we fell down. My Mom would've said we were soul mates, destined to return to each other. She was romantic like that, always believing in fairy tale endings.

Our bond is stronger now. And I'm not afraid of that breaking anytime soon. Not like it did last time.

* * *

On New Years Eve, Peeta kisses me at midnight as fireworks light up the sky above us, and then asks me to give up my apartment andmove in with him. I'm surprised to say the least.

"It'll be a fresh start for the year ahead," he says, holding my hands tightly in his, staring at me with such intensity that I'm unable to look away. "I think it'll be a good thing for us."

"I- I don't know what to say," I stutter.

"Yes, maybe?" he asks, his brow crinkling.

"You aren't just trying to get me out of my shitty apartment, are you?" I ask, narrowing my eyes playfully, thinking of all the times he's grimaced at being in my building, at the way he looks at the cracks in the wall and the mould in the corners and complains about my D6 neighbours.

Peeta laughs. "Well, partly. But I want you living with me. I miss you when you're at your place."

"And when am I ever at my place alone?" I ask, smiling at him. "You follow me around like a puppy."

"And you love me for it," he laughs, and I blush. "So, Katniss Everdeen, will you move in with me?"

I swallow, and look up and to my right, watching a firework explode, the bright green contrasting against the darkness of the sky. This will be a good thing. I practically live with Peeta anyway, and there's no point in paying unnecessary rent when I could be in a nicer apartment with my boyfriend. It's a no brainer.

"I will," I say, and Peeta's eyes light up.

"Really?"

"Yes, really," I laugh at his expression. "Now kiss me, idiot."

* * *

The arrival of the New Year means Peeta's exhibition. It's finally completed and in the process of being installed in the biggest gallery in the city. Peeta is replaced by a bundle of nerves that resembles him the few weeks prior. There isn't a moment when he isn't fretting about one thing or another and he is snappy with me when I try to encourage him to relax.

"Don't do this again," I tell him, slipping my arms around him. "Don't block me out. I'm trying to stop you from having a brain aneurysm."

"You're right. I'm sorry," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose before hugging me back. I take his phone, iPad, and notebook from him and force him to relax. I massage the knots out of his shoulders and lull him into sleep. The stress is still tugging at the corners of his mouth as he snores softly in my lap but at least he's getting some sleep. I smooth his hair away from his face and cover him in a blanket, letting him rest until the TV show I'm watching has finished and then I drag him to bed, pull his shirt off and tuck him in to the duvet. He's like a log, bundled up in bed sheets on the opposite side of the bed, but we wake as a mess of tangled limbs.

Jo, Annie, and I go shopping for dresses to wear to the exhibition opening. Johanna selects a number probably too racy for an event that is going to be attended by such distinguished industry individuals, Annie looks perfect in a flowy number that makes her look like the ocean personified, the blues and greens of the dress matching her eyes perfectly. I head straight for the more simple designs, struggling between a beautiful green dress and a blue one until the store assistant on hand to assist us fishes out a stunning black number with delicate lace detail and the slightest hint of sequins and jewels along the sleeves. It's simple, but stunning. And it fits like a glove.

It matches Peeta exactly. Not that men have much choice when it comes to suits, but we look like a couple. Finnick and Annie look like Greek entities. Johanna and Thom look miles apart but so right at the same time. We're all together, a team, a family. And right now, Peeta is back to freaking out.

"Are you sure everything is ready?" he blurts down the phone, running his hand through his already messy hair.

"Is the lighting correct?"

"Has 3B been placed in the blue room?"

He's still rattling on when we are picked up to be chauffeured to the gallery. I wait until whoever he's talking to has hung up and then take his phone from him.

"Please take a deep breath and smile. You'll pass out on the carpet if you keep forgetting to breathe," I beg him, adjusting his tie.

"I know, I know. I just want everything-"

"-to be perfect, right down to the angle of the lights in room 3, and the shadow placement in 5," I say knowingly, smoothing his dress shirt down. I feel him begin to calm down under my touch. "Peeta. It's going to be okay. It's going to amazing."

"Promise?"

"Hey, I'm in it. It's not going to be anything less," I joke, pressing my lips gently against his. "Jo will kill you if you have a meltdown in front of so many people."

"That's a reassuring thought," he says, tugging at his collar nervously.

But the exhibition goes off without a hitch. I'm blinded by camera bulbs, asked a trillion questions I don't know how to answer, and handed more champagne and canapés than I ever thought I'd get to see. Inside the gallery, and I'm completely spellbound. Peeta's work truly has paid off in every way possible. You enter the gallery and are immediately met with a selection of pieces varying from photos to sketches all based on facial expressions. And then you move further in, progressing through different layers, from pieces focusing on muscles, to ones about bones, to pieces displaying details of the body I didn't even think could be drawn in such detail. It's the creases of someone's hand, the curve of the spine beneath the skin.

It's like being taken through the human body, but with art.

And I love it.

I've never been one to truly feel like I  _get_ art, and sure, maybe I'm biased, but Peeta's work makes sense in the same way that it doesn't. There's already talk of how much some of the stuff will go for if it is offered up at auction, and my mind is reeling at the amount of zeros attached to what is essentially a bunch of colours on paper.

Peeta is given two awards already, with promises of more to come, and is corralled up in front of everyone to give a speech.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he begins, looking out over the gathered crowd. He looks confident and happy up there, clutching two art awards and surrounded by everything he loves in the world. He catches my eye and holds it for a second before looking away.

"Thank you all for coming tonight. It means the world to me that so many of you are willing to come and see little old me and my work, even more so that you deem it good enough to be given awards!" the crowd chuckles at his self-deprecating jokes, and it's like he's hypnotising them the way they are reacting. Finally, he starts to finish his speech.

"This is the product of months and months of hard work. I couldn't have done any of this without some very important people. Firstly, I'd like to thank Johanna Mason; for putting up with me, for guiding me, and for kicking ass even when I didn't think I needed an ass-kicking,"

"You  _always_  need an ass-kicking!" Jo calls from the crowd, and Thom pulls her close with a fond smile. Peeta laughs and rolls his eyes.

"Thank you to Annie Cresta and Finnick Odair, who are a seamless duo that I couldn't live without. You know how valued you have been and will always be to me, in my work and in my day-to-day life," Annie and Finn say nothing, but grin widely at their friend. He locates me and doesn't look away. "And finally, I would like to thank Katniss Everdeen. She and I haven't had the smoothest of roads, but I'd go through all of it again if it meant getting what we have now. She's my other half, my rock, and I couldn't live without her."

I can feel myself blushing and blow him a kiss, ignoring the inappropriate comments Finn and Jo throw my way. Peeta ends his speech, everyone applauds him, and then he races off stage and sweeps me up into a searing kiss.

"I mean it. I can't live without you, Kat."

"I'm going to be here for a long while yet," I murmur against his mouth, and it's a promise I intend to keep. "Congratulations. This is amazing."

"You really think people are liking it?" he asks, looking around anxiously. I push his hair back, out of the combed and gelled style it has been in for the evening, and smile.

"People willing to buy your work for ridiculous amounts. I think they like it," I say, kissing him once more. Our private moment is disrupted by the steady line of people waiting to talk to Peeta. Since I'm not really needed, I move away and let my boyfriend be in his element and woo the crowds even more. By myself, I wander the gallery, taking my time to admire the product of almost a year of work.

"He's awfully talented," a gruff voice says from beside me. I stare at the painting in front of me.

"There's nothing awful about him," I say, holding my clutch tightly.

"I see you took my advice," the man continues.

I turn, confused, and face the owner of the voice. It's the man from the bar. The one who told me to fight for what I wanted. "You!" I exclaim, my eyes widening.

"Hello, sweetheart," he chuckles.

"What are you doing here?!"

"I'm the one who organised this damn thing," he shrugs, putting his free hand in his pocket.

" _You're_ Haymitch Abernathy?"

"The one and only," he remarks, as I stare at him in shock. He looks from me to the canvas mounted on the wall and shrugs. "Small world, huh?"

* * *

It's late when the last stragglers are dumped into cars and whisked off to wherever they came from. Peeta and I escape back to our hotel, dump our clothes, and leap into the soft, fresh-smelling bed laden with unnecessary pillows and thick blankets. I feel my entire body relaxing into the mattress. Peeta pulls me to his side and kisses me, long and slow, one hand burning into my back, and other at my neck.

"Thank you for being there for me tonight," he says, kissing me again. "You looked beautiful," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to mine. "That dress was made for you."

"You looked pretty good as well," I say, kissing his jaw. "Especially when you were giving that speech. I'm sure every woman in the room was jealous that you aren't single."

"You'd fight them off if they tried to come anywhere near me," Peeta chuckles, I shove him away and he laughs even more. I roll my eyes, thinking of the various women laying their manicured hands on Peeta's arms and laughing excessively at whatever he was saying. It was grating, and I really was prepared to fight them away if needed.

"I knew it," he chuckles. "I knew you'd get all possessive and jealous!"

"I was not jealous," I scoff.

"Sure you weren't."

"Peeta, I wasn't. I was just getting annoyed at how touchy some people get."

Peeta rolls close to curve his body around mine and whispers in my ear. "It's cute. Sexy, actually."

"Really?" I ask, my stomach tightening. Peeta's hand dips lower and lower down, past the edge of the shorts I'm wearing, and his fingers trace the edge of my panties. I can feel him pressing against my ass and push back against his growing erection. He exhales shakily, and I bite my lip, fighting a smirk.

We've done a lot during our new relationship, but haven't gone all the way just yet. It feels like it would make everything  _real_  but until now I don't think either of us have been ready to make such a leap. Now seems like a good time, however. Peeta is infinitely less stressed now the exhibition is behind him. He promised for us to take some much needed time off now that our work is done. Johanna and Thom are going to Mexico, I think, and Annie and Finnick are considering the Caribbean to visit friends while Peeta and I are staying a little closer to home. It'll be just the two of us, away from all and any distractions.

"You're killing me," Peeta groans, and I roll over, pushing him back against the mattress. He tosses a pillow aside and I climb on top of him. His hands come to rest on my thighs, his touch gentle but still managing to send electricity through me.

"I know," I say, leaning down and kissing him. He responds immediately, twisting his hands through my hair and fishing out the pins that held it into the intricate braided style I've worn this entire evening. When all the pins are removed, my hair tumbles down, forming a curtain that separates us from everything else. He smiles at me, his eyes glittering. Refusing to let this become a moment overtaken by any hesitancy, I kiss him again, touching my tongue to his and rolling my hips in time with the movements of our mouths. He palms my breasts over the tank top I wear until I get impatient and yank it over my head, take his hands, and place them directly onto my body.

"Shit, Katniss," he says, the roughness in his voice making my head spin. The way his hands feel against me is intoxicating, and I moan, encouraging him to move his hands. His thumb brushes over my nipple again and again, and then he rolls and tucks me beneath him, sliding his hands over my sides and pulling my arms upwards, above my head, where he holds them in place against the pillow. I moan when his mouth closes around my breast, already a writhing mess from such a simple action. He lets my hands free and chuckles, the sound satisfied and dark, and I open my eyes, not even realising they were closed. His teeth tug at my nipple, teasing me, and I reach a hand down to cup him over his pyjama pants. Two can play at this game.

And suddenly, that's exactly what it is. Peeta kisses me with more ferocity and passion than I can remember experiencing and only pulls away when we're gasping for breath. Our bodies arch against each other, Peeta a solid mass of muscles moving above me, myself a writhing, gasping mess.

He kisses over my jaw, down my neck, burning a path of kisses until he's pulling off my panties and hooking my legs over his shoulders. The first touch of his tongue against my folds is intoxicating. My back arches and Peeta holds me down with a strong arm over my hips, unrelenting as he uses his free hand to spread me open.

"Peeta!" I cry out, and he groans against me, dragging his tongue over me again and again and again, coaxing whimpers from my throat and making goosebumps prickle my bare skin. I'm unprepared for when his tongue begins circling my clit. I'm unravelling right before his very eyes, grasping at the sheets and gyrating my hips towards his mouth. He pushes a finger into me and I arch upwards from the bed. He adds another finger, curling them inside me in time with his the movements of his mouth, and my moans fill the otherwise quiet room when I come.

I'm delirious, spread out on the bed panting like I've just run a marathon.

"I want to," I gasp, my mouth open wide. "I want you. All of you, Peeta."

"Are you sure?" he asks, looking down at me, his erection straining against his pants. I sit upright and crawl forward towards him, kissing his stomach once I'm close enough. His stomach quivers under my touch and I smile, pulling his pants down over his hips and freeing his cock.

"Of course I'm sure," I say, smiling wickedly at him and taking him into my hand. His pupils dilate, expanding so much I can barely see any blue. His mouth falls open as I begin moving my hand.

"Katniss- you can't," he says, pushing me away. "I can't handle that."

We say very little to each other after that apart from calling each other's names or Peeta asking  _I'm not hurting you, am I?_ once he finally slides inside me _._ The feeling of being with him this way again is overwhelming: I'm caught between relief and a stinging pain reminding me of what it was like years ago. Peeta cradles me like I'm made of glass, holding me close so that we're pressed against each other, our skin touching as much as possible as his body moulds to mine. He kisses me like I'm oxygen and shifts backwards, almost pulling out of me, before pushing in so agonisingly slow that I feel it all the way down to my toes. I'm overwhelmed at the feeling of him inside me again, and of course Peeta notices. He stops, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself above me.

"Katniss? Are you alright?" he asks. I nod, blinking back tears, and take a deep breath.

"I just- I really…" I trail off. How is it that I can't say what I want to when it really matters? I reach up to touch his face, gazing into his eyes and hoping he can read everything I'm feeling in mine.

Peeta's face creases with understanding. He kisses me gently. "It's okay. You don't have to say anything," he whispers against my lips as he begins thrusting again with more urgency. I tighten my legs around his waist and shout his name as pleasure begins building low in my stomach. He shifts one of my legs upwards, over his shoulder, so that he goes even deeper into me. I see stars, my nails digging into his sides as I come for a second time. Peeta continues pounding into me while I clench around him, watching his face contort with pleasure, and finally he comes with a low, gravelly groan that reverberates through me. He releases my leg, pulling out and falling onto the bed, looping an arm around my waist and kissing my shoulder. For thirty seconds we just listen to each other gulping in air, and then he stiffens, looking up at me in horror.

"I didn't- we didn't use any protection."

I push his wild locks off his sweaty forehead. "I'm on the pill," I murmur. "Don't worry about it." The tension flows out of Peeta immediately and he settles back down, closing his eyes, his face buried in the pillow. My eyes droop shut too, my body sated and my mind being pulled under by sleep. My stomach rumbles and Peeta laughs.

"They do room service 24/7, right?"

* * *

"You sure you want to do this?" I ask, gripping Peeta's hand tightly as we stare at the venue of Fenton's wedding ceremony. His bride is Christian, so it's in a church, something that would immediately put me off because of the religion thing as whole, but it's undoubtedly beautiful. The sun is shining brightly in the clear spring sky and everything is in full bloom. People are gradually filtering into the church. If Peeta and I don't get inside now, the bride will arrive and we'll miss her going down the aisle.

"How can you sound more hesitant to go in then I do?" he says, laughing off the obvious tension in the car. I look at him but notice the signs of stress around his eyes. He's been worried about the wedding ever since formally asking me to attend with him, anxious about seeing his family after so long of little contact. He wants to see his brother get married, of course. It's Mrs Mellark that gets under his skin.

"If you want to leave, just tell me, and I'll say that I'm feeling unwell. Blame it on whatever food is in there." I offer, trying to get him out of his head.

"Noted, but I think it'll be okay. I can be civil with my mother and then ignore her, and my dad and brothers aren't that bad—"

I raise an eyebrow.

"Okay… we'll leave before anyone gets drunk and starts fighting," he concedes.

Peeta and I are sat fairly close to the front, but the gap between him and the rest of his family is clear. Mrs Mellark looks haughtily in our direction but makes no move to say hello. Mr Mellark comes over and says a few quiet words to his son, and then asks me how I am and how nice it is to see the two of us here. Rye saunters over, still looking like a dickhead after all this time, even in a suit with a rose in his lapel and his hair styled conservatively.

"Peet, Everdeen," he greets us, rocking back on his heels and chewing on some gum. "Isn't it about time you two got hitched?"

"Actually no," Peeta says. I immediately sense the strain his brother's words are putting on him and wrap my arm around his waist, grounding him to me. "We've only just got back together, actually."

Rye's eyes bug out of his head. "Shit, what happened?!"

"You would know if you had answered my calls during the past few years."

"I text you all the time."

" _I_ text  _you._ You reply when you feel like it."

"I'm busy!"

"I think the ceremony is about to begin," I interject hastily, eager to break this up before they get any more involved. "It was great talking to you, Rye."

"Yeah, you too," he says before heading back towards the altar and his place beside Fenton as best man.

Fenton waves at us from where he stands by the altar, but looks too nervous to come and talk, rocking back and forth on his heels and shaking out his arms.

"I don't blame him," Peeta says, leaning back in his seat. "I'd be shaking if I was marrying into Cassandra's family. They're very traditional. And being a video game designer isn't a job they'd find 'adult' enough, no matter how much money he earns."

The ceremony is shorter than I expected, and the kiss the new Mrs Cassandra Mellark gives her husband is barely PG. She's a beauty, with flowing, golden hair and flawless skin, and looks like a damn princess in her gown. She and Fenton look ecstatic as they walk out of the church under a cloud of confetti. I look up at Peeta watching his brother. There's a small smile on his face and that's good enough for me. I didn't want him to feel bad on a day of celebration.

The newlyweds jump into a sleek Rolls Royce Phantom and take off, and the guests make their way to the sprawling estate holding the reception. As Peeta drives, I can't stop thinking about how in love the couple seemed to be. Will that be Peeta and I one day? Him in a crisp suit, and me in a delicate white dress?

I think back to that fateful day. The day I found the advertisement that brought us back together. I remember thinking that Peeta never stopped being the boy I fell in love with. And that's still true, after all this time. How funny is it that the universe brought us back together? Life is strange like that. It always has meaning behind what it puts you through, whether it's taking, giving, or returning.

Peeta opens my door for me once we arrive and kisses my temple, drawing me close as we walk over the gravel and into the manor house.

Marriage. I like to think that one day I will reach that milestone. But we've got forever to meet that milestone, and I'm looking forward to the trek towards it. For now I'm glad. I'm no longer shooting in the dark. I'm right on target.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: 3/3 for Peeta's chapters. Epilogue is next! Thank you to louezem for betaing, as always :)

It's finally here. After months and months of hard work, it's here. My exhibition. I've never been so stressed or so relieved in my entire life. Katniss can probably feel the tension rolling off me in waves. Everyone within a fifty-yard radius can feel it. Katniss tries to get me to calm down. I think she's afraid of me retreating back into myself and causing our relationship to struggle again. I'm not going to abandon her, but her fears are justified. This time I'm focusing on her and listening to her when she's annoyed or angry or just tired. That's something she's learning as well; to speak her mind.

"Don't do this again," she murmurs, leaning against me as we sit on the couch, dipping her head to rest it on my shoulder. "Don't block me out. I'm trying to stop you from having a brain aneurysm."

"You're right. I'm sorry," I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. She takes away everything that's distracting me: my phone, iPad and notebook and forces me to sleep, massaging my shoulders and singing softly until I let sleep pull me under. Any respite from the hurricane of thoughts whirling around in my head is welcomed.

And then suddenly it's  _the_  day and Katniss and I are on our way to the Heavensbee Gallery on the other side of the city and I can't stop worrying about whether everything is set up. I was assured three hours ago that the event was ready to go ahead, but I'm still panicking. This is so important. It  _has_ to be right.

"Are you sure everything is ready?" I ask the curator of the Gallery. Katniss rolls her eyes. "Is the lighting correct? Has 3B been placed in the blue room?"

Katniss takes my phone from me once the call is over and puts it in her purse. "Please take a deep breath and smile. You'll pass out on the carpet if you keep forgetting to breathe," she advises me, leaning over to fix my tie.

"I know, I know. I just want everything-"

"-to be perfect, right down to the angle of the lights in room 3, and the shadow placement in 5," she finishes for me, causing me to smile weakly. "Peeta. It's going to be okay. It's going to amazing."

"Promise?"

"Hey, I'm in it. It's not going to be anything less," she smirks, kissing me. "Jo will kill you if you have a meltdown in front of so many people."

I tug at my collar. Is it hot in here? "That's a reassuring thought."

Thankfully the evening goes smoothly. Katniss and I smile at the cameras and I'm asked endless questions about my artwork. It feels great to just be able to talk and talk and talk and let everything out. Katniss stands to the side, smiling at me the entire time, breath-taking in her dress. It accentuates her curves just enough for her to remain comfortable. I know she doesn't like skimpy outfits. This dress is perfect. She's perfect.

I'm presented two awards, one for an  _Outstanding Contribution to the 21_ _st_ _Century Art Scene_ and another naming me  _Artist of the City._ I'm overwhelmed. Never in a million years did I think I'd be awarded with such distinguished trophies. It feels like a triumphant  _fuck you_ to my mother.

None of my family members turned up tonight. I rang the bakery three weeks ago and left a message, inviting them along, but never got a reply. It hurt more than I'd like to admit. I at least expected my father to respond, even if it was only to apologise that they couldn't make it. Mom probably deleted my voicemail before he even knew it existed.

My legs are jelly when I'm called up for a speech, and I almost drop my cue cards before shoving them in my pocket. I can speak from the heart. That's what matters, right? I look out into the crowd of nameless faces, flashing cameras and microphones, and take a deep breath.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," I begin, clutching my awards tightly. "Thank you all for coming tonight. It means the world to me that so many of you are willing to come and see little old me and my work, even more so that you deem it good enough to be given awards!" The crowd thankfully chuckles, and I relax a little. "This is the product of months and months of hard work. I couldn't have done any of this without some very important people. Firstly, I'd like to thank Johanna Mason; for putting up with me, for guiding me, and for kicking ass even when I didn't think I needed an ass-kicking,"

"You  _always_  need an ass-kicking!" Jo cries out. I roll my eyes and laugh.

"Thank you to Annie Cresta and Finnick Odair, who are a seamless duo that I couldn't live without. You know how valued you have been and will always be to me, in my work and in my day-to-day life," Annie and Finn grin up at me from the crowd. I search for Katniss in the crowd and lock eyes with her. Even through the glare of the lights shining down on me I can see the silver depths of her eyes, pulling me to her like a star would a planet. "And finally, I would like to thank Katniss Everdeen. She and I haven't had the smoothest of roads, but I'd go through all of it again if it meant getting what we have now. She's my other half, my rock, and I couldn't live without her."

Katniss blushes, the redness in her cheeks visible from here, and blows me a kiss. I thank the audience once again and then practically trip off stage and towards her, gathering her up in my arms and kissing her properly, moulding her body to mine.

"I mean it. I can't live without you, Kat," I say truthfully, and she smiles against my mouth.

"I'm going to be here for a long while yet," she says quietly. "Congratulations. This is amazing."

I look down at her, wanting an honest reaction. "You really think people are liking it?"

"People willing to buy your work for ridiculous amounts. I think they like it," she promises, kissing me once more, and then we're pulled apart so I can answer more questions. I glance over at Katniss periodically, searching for the piercing grey eyes among the sea of strangers. Haymitch walks over to her and they start talking, but I don't know what they're saying. Haymitch is chuckling, which can't be a good sign.

Thankfully, Katniss smiles at me when Haymitch wanders off, which means he hasn't wound her up like he does Jo. I feel my pulse quicken as she slinks away, further into the gallery, further away from me. I can still feel her pull. She's a like a storm. Exhilarating but deadly. And I've never been so happy to be completely at her mercy.

* * *

I feel like I'm about to pass out. Like, I'll climb out of this car, take one step forward, and then fall like a felled tree, down, down, down onto the gravel.

I've been filled with nervous anticipation about today ever since I was invited. Of course, I always planned on going. Fenton is my brother after all, and I don't want to miss out on one of the best days of his life. Mom would never let me forget the day I  _'skipped your brother's wedding – your brother, your oldest brother – to instead go and sit by yourself and play with your paint set'._ As if her badgering wouldn't make me feel even worse, I want to see Fenton on such a happy day. I've met Cassandra a few times before, and she seems to make Fen happy, so I guess that's all that matters. Not whether I stay for the entire thing, but that he's alright with giving his name to this woman.

Katniss's fingers tightening around mine seem to wake me up out of my trance. I blink, my eyes sliding back into focus, and swallow hard, watching the other guests filtering in. Katniss. I forget that she's actually here with me sometimes, anchoring me, making me feel stable despite the churning waves around me. My eyes flit to her hand in mine, up her arm, and to her face. She stares out the windscreen at the church, looking slightly less anxious than I feel, but anxious nevertheless.

"You sure you want to do this?" she asks, and I look back at the wedding venue. It's a damn beautiful place. I'm kind of offended that I didn't get to be the photographer at this shindig, though I fully understand why I wasn't asked, given the stellar amount of communication between myself and my brothers. I can already see the shots I'd want. Some of the bride and groom beneath the trees, bathed in dappled sunlight. Some of the church, of the bell glinting, of the architecture clashing against the modernity of the wedding party. I spot Rye's car off to the left, and smirk at the rusting paint job.

I attempt to lighten the mood. "How can you sound more hesitant to go in then I do?" I ask Katniss, laughing a little, the sound coming out strained and squeaky. She looks across at me, narrowing her eyes slightly, examining my face. She can read me like a book sometimes. It certainly feels like she is, peeling back layers upon layers of my soul and putting everything stuck inside my head into something comprehensible.

Her lips twitch into a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "If you want to leave, just tell me, and I'll say I'm feeling unwell," she offers, her grip on my hand tightening. "Blame it on whatever food is in there."

"Noted, but I think it'll be okay," I say, grimacing slightly. "I can be civil with my mother and then ignore her, and my dad and brothers aren't that bad-"

Katniss raises a single eyebrow, and I trail off, stopping  _that_ train of thought before it derails and makes a mess.

"Okay… we'll leave before anyone gets drunk and starts fighting," I tell her, only half joking. I think she can tell.

We climb out of the car and smooth down our clothes, checking we look presentable, and then make our way into the church. Katniss doesn't let go of my clammy hand the entire way, and bats my hands away from my tie when my fingers creep upwards to tug at it. The closer we get to the great mahogany doors of the church, the more nervous I get. I ball my free hand into a fist and take a few deep breaths.  _I'll be fine. Mom won't make a scene in front of all these guests. It'll be fine._

Katniss and I find our seats fairly quickly. We're sat sort of near to the front, but there's two rows between where we sit and where the rest of my immediate family sits. It's a clear boundary, a gaping, very noticeable mark, but no one says anything. Katniss looks pissed off though, her eyes holding the scowl she so desperately wants to unleash, but is keeping reigned in for the ceremony. I spot a few relatives I haven't seen since I was a kid, but none of them make any move to greet me, or even acknowledge that I'm there. I can only imagine what Mom has been saying to them behind my back.

To my surprise, Dad comes over to say hello. He smiles brightly at Katniss, taking her hand, telling her how glad he is to see her, and my heart swells at how genuine he is. He's still quiet, but he's showing more affection than I expected

"It's great to see you two here," he smiles.

"We're honoured to have been invited," Katniss replies.

"Peeta," he says, turning to me. Katniss looks away, giving us as much privacy as she can, but Dad still shuffles me down the aisle, a light hand on my shoulder, unsure of whether he should touch me at all or slap me on the shoulder,  _just like ol' times._

"Dad," I reply, shoving my hands into my pockets. "How have you been?"

"Oh, good. Fine, really. Your mother didn't tell me if you'd be here or not. I'm glad you are, though. It's great to see you."

"I wasn't going to miss Fen's wedding."

"Ah, no, of course not," he chuckles, looking away at some imaginary sound. He looks back at me, and smiles. "How are you, son? You look well."

"I'm okay. Went through a rough patch. Katniss helped me out of it."

"Oh, good. Good, good, good."

"Yes."

"Katniss seems like a lovely girl, still, after so long."

"She is."

He presses his lips together, floundering. I know I'm not making much effort to prolong this conversation, but I think he's secretly grateful. We've gone so long without talking to each other that we don't really have much to say, and it's painfully obvious.

"Uh, what, uh, rough patch was this?" he asks.

"Just… general life. I'm seeing a therapist now. He's helped a lot to sort out my head."

Dad blinks, obviously surprised. He always acted oblivious to Mom's drinking, and in turn, mine, but I don't think he was really aware of the toll it took on me. That his distance paired with Mom's 'troubles' left me stranded.

"I'm okay, Dad. Don't worry about me, okay?"

"I do, Peet," he says quietly. "I do worry. Keep in touch, alright? I'd love to hear more about you and Katniss."

"Will do," I nod, shifting away, down the aisle. His hands lift briefly as if to hug me, and then thinks better of it, and moves to talk to someone else. I retreat to Katniss and slump back against the mahogany pew, releasing a breath. That went better than I expected.

Mom doesn't make any move to say hello. She looks over in my direction, her eyes sharp slits, her hair pulled back, her lips a firm, unforgiving line.

Rye saunters towards us, his hair scraped back no doubt under Mom's orders. The rose pinned to his lapel can't sweeten him at all. He cracks his gum and rocks on his heels as he stands in front of us.

"Peet, Everdeen," he greets. "Isn't it about time you two got hitched?"

I feel Katniss stiffen beside me, and force myself to speak. Rye doesn't scare me the slightest. He may be an irresponsible, sarcastic dick most of the time, but he's not that bad. And he doesn't know what's happened during the past two years, so I can't blame him for putting two and two together.

"Actually, no," I say, my voice stronger than I expected it to be but still wavering a little, not under the scrutiny of my brother though, but by his assumption that we'd be married, when in reality, that's the last thing currently on my mind. Katniss loops her arm around my waist. "We've only just got back together, actually."

"Shit, what happened?" he asks, his eyes widening.

"You would know if you had answered my calls during the past few years," I tell him, putting this all on him. That's one of the things Dr Aurelius has advised me to do. To not put all the blame on myself, to realise when my efforts have been met with blank walls.

"I text you all the time," Rye snorts.

" _I_ text  _you._ You reply when you feel like it."

"I'm busy!" he cries, and I roll my eyes. I can only imagine what his idea of  _busy_ is.

Katniss hastily interjects before I can say anything in return. "I think the ceremony is about to begin," she says. "It was great talking to you Rye."

Rye eyes her, looking slightly impressed. "Yeah, you too." He walks away, returning to the altar to stand beside Fenton, nudging him and saying something that causes Fen to turn around and wave. He looks nervous, but happy to see me.

"I don't blame him," I comment, leaning back, watching Fen shake out his arms. "I'd be shaking if I was marrying into Cassandra's family. They're very traditional. And being a video game designer isn't a job they'd find 'adult' enough, no matter how much money he earns."

That's something that irritates me. Fen and I have both ended up in artistic careers, but Fen is the favoured one. It makes no sense. He earns a much steadier wage than I do, but still, I'm in the same boat as he is.

The wedding ceremony goes off without a hitch, and Fenton and Cassandra look ecstatic as they leave the church as man and wife. Confetti rains down as they walk through the crowds of guests, and I look down at Katniss. I don't know if she realises it or not, but she's smiling. A real, happy smile, as she watches the newly-weds approach their getaway car. She looks deep in thought as well, but those thoughts clearly aren't bothering her given her relaxed expression. I look away and to my brother and his bride, and sigh, feeling a weight being lifted from my shoulders. A smile graces my lips too. That could be me one day, married to Katniss. My smile widens.

The drive to the wedding reception is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Katniss kicks off her shoes as soon as we start driving, rubbing her feet, and checks her reflection in the mirror more than once. I know she wants to make a good impression on my behalf. It's a humbling thought that she wants to be by my side throughout this entire thing.

When we arrive, I jump out and pull open Katniss' door for her, taking her hand in mine. I pull her close to me, feeling the chill of the evening through my jacket. Katniss sighs. I press a kiss to her temple, hugging her even tighter to my side, feeling her warmth seeping into my very bones.

God, I love this woman.

Enough to want to marry her one day? Definitely. I know we agreed to take it slow, to feel our way forward and not leap into the unknown, to hold each other's hands to keep our balance, to speak up when we feel unsteady, but that is a point I can't wait to get to. Seeing her beside me, dressed in white, with a ring on her finger and my name as hers – it would be a dream come true.

Dr Aurelius told me that I had to stop worrying about the future.  _If you always spend your time focusing on the future, on tomorrow, you'll miss out on the now. And why should you prepare for tomorrow? Tomorrow hasn't prepared for you. Just live in the now, and let things happen the way they should._ That's a terrifying thought, but it's true. The echoes of my upbringing still ring loud and clear in my mind, but I'm learning to block them out. The echoes are fading after so long of bouncing around in my head with no way out.

For now, I'm happy. I'm more than happy. I'm more than I can even describe. More than I can even try to paint or photograph. It's unexplainable, and I'm fine with that. Explaining it would take away the feeling I get when I come home and find Katniss sat on the couch watching Netflix. The feeling I get when I wake up with her beside me. That feeling I get when I'm just beside her. I don't want to explain it away, so I'll leave it be. It's one of the mysteries of life. Sometimes it take a lot of courage to believe in what will be, to ignore what could've been. To live in the moment is a lot less stressful that always looking over your shoulder. Living in the moment means Katniss is here, and that's all I need.

Katniss is my own personal work of art. One I don't need to alter. People always say that it isn't what art  _is_ that matters, it's how it makes you feel.

And right now, I'm feeling pretty damn good.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It's finally here guys, the end of Shot in the Dark. Thank you so much for reading and leaving kind comments, I hope this last chapter makes you all happy :) You should all go and thank louezem for betaing all this time. It's been a long ride getting this thing to the point it's at now, and she's helped more than you can imagine. Enjoy!

_Early April, two months after Peeta's exhibition_

As I stand in the room that has served as my bedroom for the past two years, staring at bare walls and floors, I can't help but feel a little attached.

It's April, and the month has brought rain and grey skies that smother the city. It's miserable, and, in my apartment, it's damp and cold. I've told Cray multiple times about the mould, about the drafts, about the leaks, and each time he just waves his hand and reminds me that rent is due and to close the door when I leave. It's frustrating to say the least, especially when I'm not even really living there anymore. Ever since Peeta's exhibition, I've spent more time at our old place than at my apartment. Whenever I  _am_  here, I sit in my tiny kitchen and wonder how the hell I've managed to live here for so long without getting seriously ill. It's not worth a quarter of the rent I'm paying. But now the lease is finally up, and I can put this part of my life behind me.

Despite all that, despite the peeling paint and stubborn door and drug den in D6, it's been my home for a long time. I've grown used to the place. It's become part of me whether I like it or not, and even though I'm incredibly relieved to be moving out, it still holds a little something in my heart.

After mom died, I was just getting my footing in college, in living my own life after losing Prim and my father. I'd always been closer to them, so when it was just myself and mom, it was tough. She was in a deep depression and I was fighting my own demons, battling between moving on from their deaths and living my own life without feeling guilty. Having Peeta already there from high school brightened my world. Even during that first year when we were just friends, I found that talking to him was the easiest thing I could do after lowering my little sister into the ground. He was pure and honest and kind, always willing to listen to the problems of others, never complaining, never showing anything but happiness.

Dating him came pretty naturally, and the day I moved away with him for college, I felt like I could finally breathe for the first time in my life. Living with my mother meant our house was silent. She would either be sleeping or working long shifts at the hospital, and I was getting on with school, determined to get to the places I wanted. And even though we didn't speak very much in those last few years, there was a weight upon our shoulders that we never truly resolved. I may have never felt a true mother-daughter connection, but she was my mom, my only family. And it really did hurt when she died.

_Then_

_I stare at the television, not really watching it anymore but just staring, trying to stay awake. The same can't be said for Peeta, however, who fell asleep halfway through the film. I have a feeling I'll be following fairly quickly, though. I'm comfortable on the couch with my head on his shoulder, and his gentle snores threaten to pull me under any time now._

_I reach for the remote and switch the TV off, before reluctantly climbing to my feet, picking up our empty dishes and putting them aside to wash tomorrow. I go into the bathroom and brush my teeth, braid my hair back from my face, and pull on my pyjamas. I pull back the duvet cover and fluff the pillows, crack open the window to let in some air so Peeta can sleep, and then close the curtains. Once that's all done, I head back to the living room and wake Peeta. He's exhausted, with dark purple circles beneath his eyes and stress lines present even in rest. I know I can't look much better either. School has been taking its toll lately, with more deadlines needing to be met this week than any other throughout the school year._

" _Peeta," I mumble, fighting back a yawn. "Peeta, wake up," I try again when he remains still, shaking him lightly until he opens his eyes, staring sleepily up at me, his hair sticking up in all directions._

" _W-what's wrong?" he says, still half-asleep, so his words come out slurred, more like 'whas wong'. I smile down at him and take his hand, trying to propel him onto his feet. He finally stands and stretches, throwing his arms into the air and groaning, his shirt riding up._

" _Come on, we can't sleep on the couch," I say, pushing him towards our bedroom, his movements clumsy and slow. "We'll just be grouchy in the morning if we do."_

_Peeta says nothing in return and strips down to his boxers before retreating into the bathroom to brush his teeth. I'm already in bed when he returns, flopping down onto the mattress beside me with a sigh. I attempt to drag the duvet over him until he does it himself, burying his face in his pillow, pulling the blankets up to his ears. I switch off the lamp on my nightstand and roll back close to him, kissing him softly._

" _Goodnight," I whisper when I pull away, moving onto my side, ready to fall asleep after such a long day. Peeta doesn't allow me to move, deepening the kiss until I respond, biting down on his bottom lip. We're too tired to actually do anything more, falling asleep as we kiss, but it's okay. I'm warm and content and with the man I love. We have plenty of time to make up for half-assed kissing._

_I rest my head on his chest and our legs tangle together, our breathing slowing as sleep creeps up on us. The last thing I register is his lips brushing against the side of my head, and his hand dipping below my shirt to rest on the small of my back, holding me close._

…

_The sound of someone hammering loudly on our front door is what wakes me. I grimace, staring through the darkness, my heart racing when another round of knocks are heard._

" _I'll get it," Peeta grumbles from beside me, already climbing out of the bed, pulling on some sleep pants and stumbling towards our bedroom door to pull it open. I stretch out on the bed and wait for him to return, and crane my neck to look at the alarm clock on his nightstand. It's 2:30 am. Who the hell would be knocking at the door at this time of night?_

_Peeta comes barrelling back into the bedroom then, his eyes wide as he stares at me._

" _What is it?" I ask, frowning at his expression._

" _There are cops at the door," he says, sounding confused. "And they're asking for you, Katniss."_

_I quickly climb out of bed and hurry out of the room, with Peeta on my heels. I yank open the front door, and, sure enough, two cops are standing in the hallway._

" _Are you Katniss Everdeen? Daughter of Mrs Dahlia Everdeen?" one of them asks, and I nod, gripping the door tightly._

" _Yes," I nod. "How can I help you?"_

" _Do you mind if we come in, Miss Everdeen?" he asks, stepping forward. I'm tempted to tell him to fuck off until it's a more acceptable time, but since I have no real choice, I step backwards and open the door wider._

" _No, come on in," I shrug, glancing at Peeta. He folds his arms over his broad chest, watching the cops as they come into the apartment, his eyes dipping down to the handcuffs hanging from their belts._

" _Is it really necessary to be here so early in the morning?" he murmurs as I pass him, and I grab his hand, hushing him and pulling him along with me._

" _Please take a seat, ma'am," the same officer instructs, so I pull out a chair at the kitchen table, narrowing my eyes._

" _What's going on?" I ask. "Why are you here? And at 2:30 in the morning?"_

" _I apologise for the time," he says. "We are here upon request of the Panem County Police."_

" _Panem?" I echo. Peeta sits down beside me, knowing the name as well as I do. We grew up there, but neither of us have been back for over a year now. There is no reason for the Panem Police Department to be contacting us, either._

" _Yes, Panem. We received a call just over an hour ago, ma'am, regarding your mother. It is in our understanding that she collapsed at work. A co-worker of hers contacted emergency services several hours ago to alert them that your mother was unresponsive to CPR. She was rushed to Panem Memorial, but unfortunately was pronounced dead on arrival."_

_I stare at them, feeling my mouth drop open._

" _W-what?" I ask, furrowing my brow. "What do you mean?"_

_The cops exchange glances. "Miss Everdeen, you were the only listed contact, the only next of kin. Panem County decided it would be better to have a local department contact you directly, rather than have the news delivered over the phone from halfway across the country."_

_Everything after that sort of fades away, melting into nothing but a buzzing sound. I stare at the kitchen table, at the whirling grain of the wood, digging my nails in to the varnish as hard as I can. Occasional phrases such as 'next of kin', and 'cardiac arrest', and 'documentation issues' float out of obscurity now and then, but nothing is sticking. Everything is going straight over my head._

_My mother is dead. I'm alone._

_My mother is dead._

_I'm alone._

_An odd feeling washes over me. Something made of confusion, grief, and relief. Confusion at how this can't have happened now. Not now. She's too young for death. Grief swallows me over the fact that I'm actually alone in this world now, for real. That all my last connections to my family are gone, ripped away from me. First dad, second Prim, and now, mom. Behind that grief is relief that she's gone. She may as well have died along with Prim. It's like she has been dead all these years. But now it's real and she's not just a shadow in the background of my mind. She's finally gone, and in a strange, morbid way, I'm free._

_Peeta's hand lands on my shoulder, and I flinch, before relaxing as he brings it down to rest on the small of my back. He's giving me space, but keeping me close. Keeping me anchored._

_His touch brings me back to the present, and I look up, blinking rapidly at the cops._

" _What happens next?" I ask, my voice wobbling._

" _We have all the necessary documents down at the station. You can come and fill those out, and we'll go from there to organise things."_

" _Okay…" I say, standing. "Let's go then."_

" _Katniss-" Peeta says softly from beside me. "It's way too early for that, and you're tired. Get some rest first, and go down in the morning, when you've got a clearer head."_

" _I'm fine, Peeta," I snap. "Besides, we have classes tomorrow and I've got to work."_

" _Ma'am, it's advisable to take today off at the very least," the cop speaks up. "Your husband is right. It's better to get some sleep before handling these types of things."_

_Neither of us bother to correct him on our relationship status._

" _Okay," I relent, exhaustion hitting me. "Is there anything else?"_

" _Not currently, but we'll be sure to contact you if you need to know anything."_

" _Alright, thank you," I say, and everyone stands. When I don't move to shake any hands or guide anyone to the door, Peeta does it for me, quietly thanking them and herding them away. After the cops are gone, he makes me drink a glass of water and silently carries me back to bed, curling his body around mine as if to shelter me from the world outside, from what the next few days, weeks, months will bring, and presses a soft kiss against the back of my head._

" _I'm sorry," he whispers into the darkness, and I tighten my grip on his hands, squeezing my eyes shut, willing myself not to cry._

" _It's fine," I choke out, and he sighs, hugging me tighter. "Just stay with me, okay?"_

" _Always."_

…

_Regret eats away at me. After Prim died mom and I didn't have the best relationship. She was in a daze and I felt like I had no one. And now that I actually have no one, it stings. It burns. I haven't visited her in the few years I've lived in the city with Peeta, halfway across the country. I made the effort to call her at least once a week, but even that was too much sometimes. I spoke to her two weeks ago, and we chatted about mundane things. It was a strained conversation, never becoming too personal, but it was nice. It was comforting to have her there, even if she wasn't really there._

_I signed off with my usual farewell of:_ Have a good day, Mom. I love you.

_Half the time it felt forced and hollow, but a little bit of warmth sparked in my chest when she said_ 'I love you too, Katniss' _, and quickly hung up the phone. Neither of us made the effort after Prim was gone. We just stopped being a mother and daughter, just became ghosts in the same house, of the same blood, acknowledging each other occasionally but unable to show that we did care._

_And now it's too late. Because she's gone._

_After the grief comes respite. And that just makes me feel guilty. I shouldn't be feeling relieved that my mother is finally gone, should I? Not after barely talking to her. Not after we became strangers. How can you be relieved to have a stranger out of your life? I take solace at the thought of her finally being at peace. She always seemed so tormented after losing Dad and then Prim, caught in some strange limbo that I couldn't pull her out of, but now she's with them, and hopefully happier._

…

Watching the third coffin being lowered in the ground in my short life was tough, and it took me a while to get moving with my own life again. Peeta was there the whole time, supporting me, guiding me, making sure I ate and moved and smiled. He understood that I didn't want to be coddled, and contacted all the necessary people to make sure that we had the next week free, despite my protests. He always knew what was best for me even if I didn't.

We flew out back to Panem to bury my mother, and we left two days later, not able to spend any more time in that tiny town, where everyone knew everything about everyone, where too many demons lurked, mine in the graveyard, his in his family home.

When we broke up, my mouldy, freezing little apartment was like a symbol of my independence. It was the type of independence I didn't want, but it was there. I tried to convince myself that I was strong enough to handle having no family, no friends, and an awful job, and it's taken me a long time to realise that it has nothing to do with strength. Even the strongest people need human contact, and I did nothing but get weaker by denying myself conversation.

Leevy was a lifeline. The diner was a lifeline. A miserable one, but it was there.

And then, despite everything, I was a lucky one. I got back what I so carelessly threw away. Peeta, and the steady warmth that flows through him.

"How many boxes are left?" he asks, stomping back through my empty apartment and standing beside me.

"Just the one," I murmur in reply, and he steps closer, his hand brushing my arm.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I sigh, my shoulders slumping. "I just- have you ever got attached to something that's kind of stupid?"

"Of course I have. She's standing in this room," he jokes, and I looking up at him, scowling as he chuckles.

"You know what I mean, you moron," I say, and he pulls me to him, smiling softly.

"I do know what you mean. And there's nothing wrong with it at all, as long as you don't let it control your life. Sometimes letting things go is the hardest thing you can do."

His statement is loaded, weighed down with multiple different meanings for the each of us as individuals, and the two of us as a couple. I look up at him, and his gaze is so intense that I can't look away. A minute passes, and I stretch up on my tiptoes to kiss him.

"Thank you for being here," I mumble against his mouth, and he kisses me again, leaning his entire body into it, only pulling away when I'm moaning and weak at the knees.

"Come on, Everdeen. We've got places to go, things to do!" he exclaims, grabbing the last box at my feet and walking away. I smirk, bringing my hand up to my lips.  _Damn him._

I leave the room for the last time and walk slowly through my apartment, checking that I haven't left anything behind. I'm giving away all the furniture I don't/can't bring to Peeta's place – to  _our_ place – to various charities, except for my bed, which Leevy is getting to replace the 'creaky bed of nails' she sleeps on. Once I'm sure the apartment is cleared, I lock the front door for the last time, dump the keys in Cray's mailbox, and leave the building behind. Peeta is ready and waiting in his car, the few boxes of my possessions piled in the back.

"Ready to go?" he asks, smiling brightly at me when I get into my seat. I nod, and he pulls off, and I don't even look back.

* * *

We stop by at Leevy's apartment a few blocks away to give her my no longer needed bed, and as we fit into the elevator with the frame, I realise that Leevy has never even met Peeta. Apart from texts, I've only seen her a few times since I quit, having been busy with my personal life and with my new job. When I told her we'd be stopping by, she was excited to see if the infamous Peeta Mellark lived up to everything I've described him as.

"Katniss!" she exclaims upon opening her door. "How are you?" she hugs me, and I'm hit with a familiar smell of  _diner_ that has me wrinkling my nose.

"Leevy, hey," I grin. "I'm great. You look well."

"Yes, well, the diner just lost another brilliant waitress," she shrugs, her eyes sparkling.

"You quit?!"

"I got a job down at the kid's rec centre," she beams. "I'll be starting in a few days!"

"I'm so happy for you," I say, and she smiles wider, before noticing Peeta standing behind me, laden down with various pieces of bed.

"And I'm happy for  _you,_ " she smirks, and I step further into the apartment, waving to her son, Dylan, who has grown so much but is still just as cute as the last time I saw him. "Leevy," his mother introduces herself to Peeta behind me. "It's lovely to finally meet you."

"Peeta. It's nice to meet you too."

Leevy directs Peeta and I to prop the bed frame in her bedroom, and once that's done, she makes us all some tea and we talk. Admittedly, most of the chat is just Leevy and I catching up, and since Peeta isn't really needed, he ends up playing Dylan instead, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor and playing with some toy cars, looking very much in his element with the three-year-old boy.

"He's gorgeous," Leevy gushes, looking over at Peeta with her son. "I'm so jealous."

"He's a lot of things," I smile, and she rolls her eyes, reminding me a little of Johanna.

"Listen to you," she says, mock-annoyed. "Being all lovey-dovey.  _Katniss Everdeen._ Would you believe it?"

"A year ago? Definitely not," I say, glancing back over my shoulder to Peeta, who high-fives Dylan before resuming the car race, both with deadly looks of concentration.

Leevy has to call my names three times to get my attention once again.

"Just invite me to the wedding, okay?" she says, patting my hand with a knowing smile, and taking another sip of her tea.

* * *

We leave Leevy's a little while later, and once we reach home, Peeta puts down the boxes he's carrying to unlock the door, takes mine before I can protest, placing them carefully on the floor before turning back to me.

"What are you doing?" I ask, and he steps forward to sweep me into his arms, carrying me bridal style over the threshold and setting me down again. I roll my eyes but am unable to keep the goofy smile from my face.

"You're such an idiot sometimes."

"But I'm  _your_  idiot," he reminds me, and I walk  _back_ through the door I was just carried through to bring in the boxes hanging around in the corridor. It take only two more trips to bring everything up, and once it's done, we sit amongst the boxes and try to figure out where to start. I left most of my belongings here when I left, and Peeta tells me that he put the majority of it in storage, just in case I ever wanted it back. I decide to open  _that_ can of worms (or storage unit) another day, and just set about putting my stuff away. Peeta has cleared space for me, though I don't need much. Still, I get extreme déjà vu seeing my clothes all hung up next to his, to put my toothbrush next to his, to see things I'm used to seeing in my old place back here. Nothing has changed, but everything is different.

Hours later, when I'm settled, Peeta forces me to sit down in front of the TV while he makes dinner. That unease from earlier lingers on, and I have to force myself to move to the window seat, to sit down, to stare out of the window as the rain hits the glass, to look over the city view and not feel like I'm an intruder, because this is my home once again. There are memories in every corner of this place; bad ones, good ones, and everything in between. They're here to stay. I won't be able to forget them, but I can build new ones with Peeta, ones that are better suited to withstanding the test of time.

We're quiet at dinner, and it's comfortable. When I stand up halfway through to get both of us some more beer, it strikes me how strange it feels to just go into the kitchen and know my way around it. It's pretty similar from two years ago, and I can move with ease, finding the bottles on the second shelf in the fridge, finding the bottle opener in the third drawer on the right. This feeling just won't leave me alone, and it isn't until we're sitting on the couch, my head on Peeta's chest, his arm around my shoulders, with the rain hammering down outside and my boyfriend's heartbeat strong and steady against my ear, that I realise that this feeling just shows how natural it is to be sat here with him. It's like breathing. I don't even have to think about it.

We fall into bed, tired from such a physical day of sorting and dismantling and packing things, transporting them and sorting them all over again. After a few minutes of silence, Peeta rolls in closer, and I hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks.

"What do you think about christening the place?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly in my ear, his hand sliding over my stomach, closing in on the waistband of my shorts.

…

The next morning, when I wake, I'm undeniably happy, in a warm and cosy bed with the man I love, a stark contrast from what I used to have, which was a cold apartment and a yearning for the person I'd taken for granted.

I look up at him and smile. He really is there, his face mushed into the pillow, soft snores filling the room, his hair a golden halo, morning sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains and illuminating him. This isn't a dream, not this time. It's reality.

* * *

I notice how often Peeta takes photos, how often he sketches. He always has a camera with him, whether it's his phone or a proper DSLR with ten thousand fancy lenses, ready to snap a picture of whatever catches his eye. I also notice how often he sketches me.

I'm rummaging through the junk mail and magazines and other bits and pieces that have gathered on the coffee table when his sketchbook slips out onto the floor, the pages fluttering open. I pick it up and find endless sketches of me, which is no surprise, but I'm blushing by the time I reach the first blank page.

He's been sketching me while I'm asleep, or from memory, and they aren't exactly family-friendly. Renders of my sleeping self tangled in sheets, getting dressed, below or on top of him, all in varying states of dress. I let the redness from my cheeks fade and turn the smile on my face into a scowl, finding the most risqué image before stalking down the hallway to his studio, throwing open the door.

"Jesus Christ!" Peeta exclaims, practically jumping out of his skin at my sudden entrance. "You scared me," he says, starting to chuckle.

"What the  _hell_ is this?" I demand, holding the book out as if it's on fire. Peeta's laughter quickly falters, and he barely reacts to the image I'm holding out to him before looking up at me and half-smiling, his eyebrows raising as he tries to tell if I'm serious or not.

"It's… it's you," he says, barking out a laugh, still unsure.

"Oh, well thank God for that," I sneer, flicking through the pages, pausing sporadically to show him choice sketches. "That was what I was  _really_  fucking worried about."

"Wait, are you seriously mad with me?" he asks, his stupid grin disappearing.

"Yes I'm fucking mad!" I snap, throwing the book at him. It hits him in the chest and he stares at me, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Why the hell are you drawing me like that?"

"I thought you didn't mind… I thought you  _knew_ ," he says, but his eyes are still sparkling.

"I didn't know they were like  _that_."

"You've never cared before," he tries to amend. "I always used to draw you and you didn't care."

"That was before we broke up and didn't see each other for two years," I remind him, and he frowns, obviously surprised that I've brought that up, but finally figuring out that I'm not messing around. He twists around to place the sketchpad on the table behind him, wiping his paint-covered hands on a rag and approaching me like one would an injured wild animal.

"I'm sorry, Kat," he says softly. "I'm sorry if I've upset you. I guess I just assumed that… that you wouldn't mind. I'll stop if you want me to."

"Don't come any closer," I warn, glaring at him. "I'm really fucking annoyed with you."

"Why?" he asks, half-laughing again.

"Because it's  _weird,_ Peeta! It's creepy, and I don't want you doing it anymore!"

"Okay, I'm sorry. Please don't be angry at me," he pleads, and I allow him to come closer now that I'm backed against the wall opposite, his hands settling on either side of my head. I continue to scowl at him, and he smiles beseechingly at me, trying to convey his albeit confused apologies. "I'll stop. I'm sorry."

"It's really creepy, okay?" I mutter, and he's about to speak again when I cut him off, lowering my voice so there's no room to doubt my true intentions. "If you want to draw me like that, at least do it when I'm able to actively participate."

He barely has time to react before I'm kissing him, cradling his jaw in my hands, biting down on his bottom lip as he catches up to what is going on. He leans further into the wall, bringing his body closer to mine, moaning against my mouth, sending electricity pulsing through me.

My hands soon move down to disappear beneath his shirt, eager to touch his skin. I begin scratching my nails slowly down the flat planes of his stomach, threading through the hair leading down past his waistline, teasing him by ghosting around the bulge in his pants. He groans against my mouth when I palm him over his jeans, panting against my neck, growing hard under my touch. I remove my hands after a minute or two and push him away harder than is probably necessary, pulling my shirt over my head to stand there, staring, my chest heaving just as much as his is.

"I take off my shirt, you take off yours," I say, my voice steady. His eyes are so wide they look like they're going to fall out of his skull any second now, but he nods dumbly anyway. "That's how this is going to work," I add, trying to convey that I'm the one in charge.

"Y-you're not really pissed?" he asks, and I bite my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction or reassurance of an answer.

"Take off your shirt, Peeta." He whips it off in record timing and begins to move towards me again, but I put my hand out to stop him. "You want to sketch me, you do it right now," I say, pointing to his discarded sketchbook.

"You're serious?" he says, disbelieving. I arch one eyebrow, challenging him. "I- uh… Can I paint you instead?" he asks.

"Sure."

He grabs a new canvas, yanking off the protective plastic covering and placing it on his easel as I stand there, fight back the urge to push him to the ground and strip him of all his clothing. He hesitates then, his hands flexing as he thinks. He looks up at me and swallows hard, his throat bobbing as he stares at me with darkened eyes.

"I want to paint you," he states.

"I know. That's what you're doing."

"No, Katniss. I want to paint  _you._ As in paint your body."

"Only if I can paint you," I negotiate, the idea of him actually painting on my body making the throbbing between my legs increase tenfold.

"Deal," he says, unbuttoning his jeans and sliding them down his legs, tossing his socks to the other side of the room, before looking at me and prompting me to join him. I strip down to my underwear and he tilts his head to one side, smiling slightly. "That's not even."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm wearing one thing. You're wearing two."

"It's underwear, Peeta. I'm wearing mine, you're wearing yours."

"Fine," he rolls his eyes, and my mouth drops open when he kicks off his boxers as well, standing naked in front of me, bold as brass. "Now, take it off."

I do as he says, my pulse quickening as I unhook my bra and remove my panties. Peeta gathers tubes of paint and paint brushes and smirks at me, loading a brush up and bringing it down the side of my face, grinning the entire time. I grab my own tube and paint a line down his face as well, the bright red stark against his pale skin.

From there, no real painting actually goes on. It's just the two of us, trying to get the other more paint-covered than the other laughing all the while. I manage to get a bright green handprint on his ass, and he chuckles, pulling me to him with a hand on my waist, the other coming to the back of my neck to angle my head upwards so my lips meet his, my laughter petering out.

Fire catches between us, spurred on from embers to a blazing inferno, and I press my body against his, my paint-stained hands winding through is hair, streaking it blue. I wrap my legs around his narrow waist when he lifts me, walking forward until I'm pressed against the wall. I gasp, my head falling back when he slides his cock between my folds in slow, controlled thrusts.

"You're already so wet," he groans, pressing kisses down my extended neck, taking me by surprise when he pulls away from the wall and moves me down until we're on the floor. I can tell he's trying to take control, trying to gain the upper hand, but I don't want to let him. I want him to surrender to me completely.

"Lay back," I order, placing my hands on his chest to push him, and he frowns, staring at me in confusion as I continue pushing him until he's on his back and I'm on top of him. His confusion is gone the moment I sink down on his cock, moaning at the feeling of him filling me, stretching me, my thighs spread wide over his hips as pleasure sweeps through me. I try to get myself under control before I start moving. Peeta grips my thighs, urging me to move, and I shove his hands off me, leaning forward to kiss him, my lips trailing down over the sharp cut of his jaw, down his neck like he did to me, sucking on his pulse point, knowing that's his weak spot.

" _Fuck,_ " he pants, his hands working their way upwards again, kneading my breasts for half a second before I'm pulling them off again, leaning all my bodyweight forward, my hands securing his arms down to the floor, gripping his wrists tightly so he can't touch me without my permission. He's much stronger than me and could easily break free, but he doesn't fight. He just shifts his hips, silently begging me to move. When I finally do, my toes curl at the sensation. I grind myself against him, watching his lips parting, watching his stomach tightening, his eyes rolling back when I clench around his cock, calling his name to get him off.

Unable to handle the building pressure anymore, I release his wrists and brace my hands on his stomach, shifting my hips to rise and fall over him, riding him furiously, desperate for my release. Peeta curses again and starts thrusting into me, reaching down to cup my ass and push me against him. His movement gets more and more erratic as time passes, his mouth falling open, his grip on my ass tightening, his cock driving deeper into me. My nails dig into his stomach when my orgasm hits, my body arching, the sounds coming out of my mouth completely out of my control.

"Katniss!" he chokes out, faltering as I moan his name. He rolls us over in one smooth motion and starts thrusting into me, hard and fast, coaxing mewls from me with every unforgiving stroke. I'm delirious, unable to do anything but lie there, but the feeling of his cock sliding in and out is enough so that I'm moaning unintelligible words as he comes, his breathing harsh in my ear, his face contorting with pleasure, rocking his hips against mine before collapsing, his body resting over mine, crushing me just a little. I'm too weak to move, still twitching from the most intense orgasm I've had in a long time.

Peeta's breathing is loud in my ear as we gasp for air, our bodies still melded together. Paint is smeared over our skin. There's red and black streaked over my waist and thighs from where Peeta was holding onto me, and bright blue hand prints mar his own body; including the green one on his ass that turned what started as a competition of who can get covered in more paint than who into wild sex on the floor of his studio. Neither of us speak for a good minute, just listening to each other panting. And then he begins to laugh, the sound so light and joyful that I can't help but join in, warmth bubbling in my chest.

"That was the hottest fucking thing I've ever done," he chuckles, pushing himself up a little so he's not crushing me, sweeping my hair out of my face with a gentle hand, a stark contrast from the way he was gripping me just a second ago. I smile up at him, drawing him in for a kiss.

"Of course you'd say that, you weirdo," I grin, placing my hand on the side of his face and pulling it away to leave paint covering his cheek and jaw. He smirks, smudging a splotch of green on my side, looking around at the mess we'd made. I loop an arm around his neck and pull him down to me, close enough so my nipples brush against his chest.

"We need to shower this paint off," I whisper into his ear, climbing to my feet and racing to the bathroom, not waiting to see if he follows. He's right behind me of course, and presses me up against the icy tiles in the shower before I can move to face him, his cock growing hard again against my ass, his hands sliding over my bare skin, his teeth biting into my shoulder.

* * *

It's several hours later, as a paint-free Peeta snores beside me, the side of his face mashed into the pillow, bed sheets tangled around him so tightly he'll wake in the middle of the night to sleepily try to rearrange them, waking me in the process, only to fall asleep again with his arms wrapped around me, refusing to let go, that I realise how everything has changed.

This time last year, I was sat in my apartment by myself, eating microwaved meals in front of the TV, buried under blankets in an effort to stay warm against the drafts. I was working agonizing shifts at the diner, earning barely the minimum wage, feeling sorry for myself. I had no family, one friend, and had recklessly thrown away my relationship with the man I'd grown to love so much, all because I didn't know how to say I was sorry, and tell him how much I loved him. I was too scared of the uncertainties that the future held, and too blind to see the certainties of what a relationship with Peeta would be. I took what I had for granted, and, like with all good things, didn't realise how much I loved it until it was gone.

If it wasn't for that tiny ad in the newspaper that Leevy told me I should go for, I never would've found Peeta again.

Or would I? What if we had met again, but in different circumstances? If in some parallel universe we had bumped into each other in that grocery store, or in the street, or in fifty, sixty, seventy years' time, at a city care home. Maybe we never would've met again. Maybe we'd pass each other on the street without even knowing. Maybe I'd finish my shift at the diner be driving out of the parking lot out front just as he pushed open the front door, looking for some shitty waffles and watered-down coffee. Maybe we would have moved on, met other people, lived different lives, with the memories of each other growing fainter and fainter each day.

Or maybe, just maybe, fate brought us back together again for a reason. Whether that's true or not, this time, I know I'm not going to take it for granted. I'm eternally grateful for Peeta, for bringing me back when I felt like there was no hope, for allowing me back into his life after everything that happened between us. We've bridged that chasm that was created with harsh words and unresolved emotions, and I don't intend to go back any time soon.

I'm unable to restrain the smile that worms its way onto my face as I watch my boyfriend sleeping. My heart swells in my chest as I think about all the little details that I'm thankful to have, especially in comparison to what I used to have. A warm bed, a soothing heartbeat to fall asleep to, slow, lazy morning kisses, searing touches under dinner tables, his awful singing in the shower. His laughter rumbling in his chest when we watch something funny. The way tears shimmer in his eyes during sad films. The excitement in his eyes over getting a new delivery of paint. The little smiles on his face that I catch when he thinks no one is watching. The simple, quiet moments, when we don't need to speak or move or even think, because we're content to lie beside each other without needing to fill the silence.

That doesn't mean I don't like noise, of course. That I don't appreciate the way he tilts his head back and scrunches his eyes shut when he comes, the way his body curves over mine, the deep, gravelly moans echoed into my ear, the satisfied smile on his lips as we catch our breath. In typical fashion, I'm determined to end this perfect day with a bang. Quite literally.

I lie in wait, preparing for my target to align himself.

After a good ten minutes, Peeta shifts slightly, smacking his lips, and stills for a second before rolling over onto his back, his arm thrown out over the mattress. Making no sound, I push the covers back, moving carefully to his bedside cabinet to grab his camera. Climbing on top of him, I switch the device on before leaning down and kissing him gently to wake him. His eyes flutter up, and he chuckles, reaching for me to kiss me fully, still half-asleep.

"What are you doing?" he asks, not yet spotting the camera, his voice scratchy, even as his hands run up and down my bare thighs.

"I think you know exactly what I'm doing," I smirk, snapping a photo of him as a hint and then whipping off my night shirt, watching as his eyes darken as he realises what is going on. "There's some paintings we need to recreate."


End file.
